An Excellent Mystery
by Soledad
Summary: Two pieces of long lost luggage are discovered at New Street Station in Birmingham. Why were there left behind and what might have happened to the owners? An original Sherlock Holmes adventure, however, it features the main characters of the BBC series.
1. Chapter 1: Lost Luggage

**An Excellent Mystery**

**aka The Adventure of the Lost Luggage**

**by Soledad**

**Fandom:** Sherlock Holmes/Sherlock BBC

**Genre:** Action/Adventure

**Rating:** G, suitable for all

**Series:** none

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The modern version belongs to BBC and Messires Moffat and Gatiss. The items of the lost luggage were borrowed from this website: www. .uk/ lostluggage/ victorians. htm. Remove the breaks and you can see the actual items for yourself.

**Summary:** An original Sherlock Holmes adventure, featuring the main characters of the BBC series.

Beta read by my good friend Linda Hoyland, whom I owe my gratitude

**Notes to Chapter 01:**

The places mentioned in this chapter are really existing ones, like _New Street Station_ or _The Grand Hotel_.

Inspector Bradstreet is actually Inspector Baynes of the ACD canon. I just switched the names because I liked the name Bradstreet better.

For visuals: Mr Roberts is "played" by Sir Derek Jacobi; his successor, Mr Stoner, by Kai Owen, his bride by Eve Myles, Mr Murdoch by Yannick Bisson and Harper, the footman. by Burn Gorman. The two porters are Thomas Craig and Johnny Harris, respectively.

* * *

**Chapter 01 – Lost Luggage**

For Station Superintendent Roberts there was no grander building in Birmingham than New Street Railway Station. Or, as it had been described when formally opened on 1 June 1854 – although it had already been in use for two years by then – the "Grand Central Station at Birmingham".

Oh, there had been other grand buildings, surely. There was _The Grand Hotel_ on Colmore Row, _St. Philip's Cathedral_, the _Theatre Royal_... one could have gone on for hours. But Mr Roberts found that none of them could be compared with his beloved station.

A breath-taking piece of architecture it was, which, at the time of the opening, had the largest arched single-span iron and glass roof in the world, spanning a width of 212 feet and being 840 feet long. It had held this title for fourteen years, until _St Pancras Station_ opened, just last year.

A true marvel that he, Lucius Roberts, had been allowed to take care of since the very first day.

For thirty-five long years he had been caretaker of this jewel and he'd loved every single day of it. But he wasn't a young man anymore. It was time to retire from active duty.

Today he'd finish instructing his successor on the duties and responsibilities of a Station Superintendent. And as much as the thought of handing over the station hurt him, he knew his jewel would be in good hands with young Mr Stoner.

Such a memorable day deserved the proper attire, and so he took out his best to honour the event, even though his valet had to go away on an errand and thus couldn't help him getting dressed. Fortunately, though elderly, he was no dotard yet. He _could_ get dressed on his own properly. It just cost him more time without help, that was all.

Trousers and boots went on easily enough. He could do them sitting down, after all. Well, mostly. Getting the long, fine linen shirt over his head and tucked in properly, without those beastly wrinkles, was a little more difficult. He had to sit down again, for he felt a brief wave of dizziness. But eventually, he got the suspenders on and the waistcoat and its many small buttons and the jacket fastened.

Even if he dropped the button hook in the process. Twice.

He admired his appearance in the minor with satisfaction. Whatever he might think about the capricious changes of fashion, he had to admit that lately, it had taken a turn to the better. The narrowed trousers, the sleeker cut of jackets looked more appealing. Especially the way jackets were cut up from the bottom now, so that the waistcoat beneath could be seen – and, more importantly, the chin of the fob watch threaded through its buttonhole.

He made a very dignified picture with it, he found.

Now it was just him and the cravat. He hadn't tied it himself for a while and tried to remember the proper moves as he wound the deep burgundy silk around his throat carefully, ignoring the tremor in his hands... a merciless reminder that he was getting old; perhaps even feeble.

It took him several tries to get it right. But when it was done, when it was secured with the pin – a gift from his co-workers on his thirty-year-anniversary – he almost felt like himself again. _Almost._ Still, he wished his valet were here to make sure he looked as neat and proper as a man of his standing was expected to do.

Getting to the station was no great hardship, fortunately. The _London and North Western Railway_ had provided him with most comfortable rooms above _Queen's Hotel_ when he had moved from London to Birmingham, for which he only had to pay a peppercorn rent.

That had enabled him to save enough money to purchase a modest little cottage in Much Benham, a little town on the outskirts of London, where most of his belongings had been already transferred. By the time he got there, his servant would have arranged everything to his liking.

Young Harper was truly a treasure, he thought fondly. Albeit short, thin, weasel-faced and of sour disposition, he was also a loyal soul who had served his master faithfully for the last eighteen years. Ever since Mr Roberts had taken pity of the starving street urchin and taken him into his employ.

Yes, he had definitely been blessed with Harper. Just as he'd been fortunate with young Will Stoner who had started off as a minor clerk under his tutelage and was now ready to take over from him – a change towards which Mr Roberts had worked for a long time.

He had watched the young man carefully and tested his skills and devotion methodically time and again. He had reportedly mentioned Mr Stoner's capability in his written reports to his superiors. He had even called in several favours to ensure that Will Stoner would, indeed, become his successor – for the position of the Station Superintendent was a much-coveted one.

Fortunately, Will Stoner had contacts of his own. Both his father and that of his soon-to-be-wife occupied important positions in the City Council and the _London and North Western Railway_, respectively, and had therefore sufficient influence. Thus, he could count on more than just Mr Roberts's support, which might or might not have been enough to secure for him the position.

* * *

After some very careful manoeuvring down the stairs and around piled-up heaps of luggage, Mr Roberts reached the interior of the station and headed for the Lost Luggage Department, where he was supposed to meet Will Stoner.

As always, the aforementioned interior took his breath away. Its magnitude alone deserved attention. Its once record- breaking semi- circular roof was composed of iron and glass, without the slightest support except that afforded by the pillars on either side... a rare piece of construction by Messrs. Fox, Henderson & Co. And beneath that roof, the station was brimming with life.

Mr Roberts's experienced eye easily saw through the turmoil and bustle created by the excitement of the arrival and departure of trains, the trampling of crowds of passengers, the transport of luggage, the ringing of bells and the noise of two or three hundred porters and workmen. For a simple onlooker it probably seemed like hopeless chaos. For Mr Roberts, it was the same extraordinary scene he witnessed daily at Birmingham Central.

Porters, and workmen and clerks and even regular passengers greeted him with respect as they hurried by. He'd been a constant feature of _New Street Station_ for decades, and everyone knew him.

Some of these people he'd known since they were small children, clutching the hands of their parents when seen their first steam train, and they saw him as a distant but friendly uncle. Others were new, but regular; and even those who didn't know him from before they stopped for a moment to give room his dignified figure.

As he crossed the footbridge across the platforms, slowly making his way towards the Lost Luggage Department – the last part of the station he had to hand over before the final farewell – he spotted young Mr Stoner waiting for him outside the office doors, under one of the beautiful, wrought iron candelabra that were the pride of the main hall.

The young man had also dressed to the event, wearing an old-fashioned frock coat with a contrasting waistcoat and trousers and even a top hat. Not that the latter would have been needed indoors, but it was part of the formal attire and thus a sign of respect .Most young people preferred the more fashionable sack coats with matching waistcoat and trousers, but Will Stoner would find _that_ improper for such an occasion. The patterned Ascot tie was the only allowance he would make.

Half of Mr Roberts's age, he was a somewhat stockily built young man of middle height, with a round, friendly, eager face, guileless brown eyes and brown hair. Easy-going by nature yet respectful towards his betters, he was generally liked by everyone. He had worked hard and diligently to reach his current position, and as he looked at that face full of earnest expectation, Mr Roberts was once again reassured that his beloved station would be in good hands.

"Good morning, sir," he said, tipping his hat respectfully. "May I offer my help?"

"Thank you, my lad, but that shan't be necessary," replied Mr Roberts. "My walking stick and I can manage it on our own just fine."

No matter how much his gout had been bothering him lately, he would never show it by accepting the arm of the young man. That was simply _not_ done in his – former – position.

Will Stoner nodded in understanding. He had known – and respected – the pride of his mentor ever since he'd begun to work at _New Street Station_ nearly fourteen years ago.

"I hope you don't mind that I've invited Gwyneth – Miss Cooper – along," he then said apologetically. "She wanted to come badly, as soon as she learned that we'd be inspecting some lost luggage today. You know how interested women are in things that belong to other people... and we shan't be handling anything confidential."

Mr Roberts suppressed a sigh. Will's fiancée was a nice enough girl if one was interested in that wide-eyed type, but she was also an unstoppable chatterbox. That woman could talk without having to take a single breath all day... perhaps even in her sleep. How Will could bear her was everyone's guess, but he seemed completely besotted with her and couldn't deny her any wish as long as fulfilling said wish was within his powers.

Of course, the fact that her father had an important position at the _London and North Western Railway _and had been a great help with securing Will's position as the new Station Superintendent _did_ play a role. That, and the fact that she brought a sizeable dowry into the marriage... well, the _upcoming_ marriage.

The wedding was scheduled for June, and Mr Roberts had been invited, of course.

Therefore, he accepted the fact that their work would be considerably delayed by Miss Cooper's chatter and curiosity, and he entered the Lost Luggage office as the companion of his successor, determined to bring the last part of his duties to a proper end.

Inside the office, two of the porters had already done a great deal of preparatory work, sorting the pieces of lost luggage by the date at which they had been found. Mr Roberts had introduced the labelling system to this particular department a decade or so ago, for it made it much easier for passengers to reclaim their lost things.

The label marked the date and the platform when and where each piece had been found, as well as the trains that had stopped at the respective platforms at that time. This system made things really easy for both parties. Nevertheless, there was still a great deal of luggage that remained unclaimed.

* * *

At the moment, about three dozen suitcases and travelling trunks stood in the office, in small, well-ordered groups, plus a considerable number of walking sticks, umbrellas, children's toys, various pieces of clothing like hats, gloves, overcoats, jackets and their like; even handbags and handkerchiefs. The amount and variety of things people left behind was simply amazing.

And amidst of all those things stood Miss Gwyneth Elise Cooper, looking very out of place but clearly intent on looking into every trunk, every suitcase, every lost handbag, should she be allowed to do so.

She was a slender young woman – considerably younger than Will – with a round, freckled face and unexpectedly large, liquid brown eyes that contrasted nicely with her pale skin, which she'd clearly inherited from her Welsh father. Her hair was dark brown, too, and she wore it in a cluster of ringlets, pulled back at the sides and swept up to the top of her head. Her frizzled fringe hung over her forehead from under the curvy-brimmed bonnet that was tied under her chin with a ribbon.

She was wearing a yellow-patterned blue silk walking dress of the latest fashion, with the overskirt plated into a seam-line on one side at the front and draped diagonally across her body to a low set of hip tucks on the sides. The back of it was gathered in several low-hanging puffs, causing the overskirt to sweep up rather high, leaving the underskirt exposed. Her form-fitting bodice had a fairly low cut and tight sleeves that reached to the elbows and were seamed with ruffles.

Even though he welcomed the disappearance of the overdone bustles, Mr Roberts found this new fashion a little offensive, to be perfectly honest. But despite the fact that he hadn't got a family of his own, he knew that there was no way to tell a young woman _not_ to wear something if they found it to their liking.

Especially if their friends wore the same things. And if their fathers could afford to dress them fashionably.

Miss Cooper gave the old gentleman a curtsey and one of those gap-toothed smiles that made her so endearing, in spite of her more exasperating qualities.

"So kind of you to allow me to watch, Mr Roberts," she said with ill-concealed excitement. "I cannot wait to see what you might find!"

Mr Roberts rolled his eyes. Some women – usually those of wealthy houses who didn't need to work for a living – could be so unbearably childish sometimes. Still, he had only to endure Miss Cooper for this one morning. Unlike poor Will, who had chosen to spend his whole life with her – something that Mr Roberts still couldn't quite understand.

"Let's start with the older pieces," he said to the porters instead. "Everything that's been here longer than five years is unlikely to be claimed, so – unless there is an address within or anything else to help in finding the owner – they'll be given to charity. There are too many penniless families in this city in desperate need for clothing, even if it has been worn by someone else."

The older one of the porters, by the name of Broadhurst, a heavily built man with an almost alarmingly red face and bristly whiskers, who'd been at _New Street Station_ for almost as long as Mr Roberts himself, nodded in understanding.

"The oldest pieces are over there, in the right-hand corner," he answered with a thick Yorkshire accent. "D'you want me to open them for you one by one, sir?"

"That would be the best," agreed Mr Roberts. "That way we can search them for clues in peace, while Crabtree here can help Mr Stoner deal with the newer ones."

The younger porter, a fresh-faced lad in his early twenties, dutifully followed his orders, and for the next couple of hours they were all unpacking and re-packing the trunks and suitcases… with the enthusiastic help of Miss Cooper who didn't seem to mind the years-old dust soiling her fashionable dress. Her curiosity was clearly stronger than her vanity, at least for the moment.

Most of the aforementioned trunks and suitcases – especially the more recently found ones – had a label on the inside of their lids with the name and the address of their owner, or some calling cards, or a couple of letters with full addresses on the envelope among the pieces of clothing. Mr Murdoch, the clerk of the Lost Luggage Department (another one of Mr Robert's protégées) meticulously noted all the names and addresses, together with the type of luggage and the date of their finding, on his inventory list.

At _New Street Station_ everything had its proper order and was done with the proper care. Mr Roberts had seen into it for the last thirty-five years, and the results showed.

* * *

Lunchtime drew close and they were nearly finished when Broadhurst heaved the last two pieces onto the counter. One of them was a travelling trunk from the type daughters of middle-class families had taken with them for longer journeys abroad fifteen or twenty years previously: a flat-topped trunk, four feet eleven inches wide and one foot eight inches deep and high.

It clearly had seen some wear and tear because the brown leather covering it was faded quite a bit and the small brass nails with which it was studded along the edges had become tarnished and dull, as well as the large, square clasp that closed the lid. Two leather straps, also closing with brass buckles, served to help keeping the lid fixed, but one of the straps was broken, half of it missing. The leather handle in the centre of the lid was equally worn.

The suitcase, considerably smaller than the trunk was in even worse condition. The cheap covering was peeled off in several places, especially at the corners, and the frayed handle was tightly wrapped with a piece of string to give it more stability.

According to the labels stuck onto them by station personnel, they were both found on the same day, on the same platform: on September 16th, 1879. The platform had been the one for the train coming from London and heading to the north.

"I remember these," said Mr Roberts. "I noticed them left on the platform after the train had steamed out again on its way north. I was already a senior clerk back then, so I had them brought to Mr Murdoch's predecessor. They were placed in the Lost Luggage Department until somebody came to claim them."

"Yet no-one came, apparently," commented Mr Murdoch softly.

Mr Roberts nodded. "No, they did not. I intended to open them a few weeks later and find out as much as I could, so that the owner might be traced, but I a few days later I was promoted to Station Superintendent, and there was so much to do for a while until I learned how to run things smoothly that I forgot about the whole thing."

"So they've been collecting dust here for the last ten years and no-one ever asked after them?" asked Miss Cooper in surprise. "Why wouldn't people want their possessions back?"

Mr Roberts shrugged. "That could have been a number of reasons, Miss Gwyneth. We shan't know more till we open them and take a look."

"We might want Constable Davies present as witness while we are doing that, sir," suggested Will Stoner seriously. "These things may belong to someone who's fallen victim to a crime; and in that case it would be better for the police to see the contents first hand."

Mr Roberts gave him a look full of almost paternal pride.

"An excellent suggestion, Will. Mr Murdoch, if you would give the police a call…"

* * *

Some of the new inventions were really a blessing, Mr Roberts mused, while Mr Murdoch competently phoned the nearby police station to call Constable Davies to the case. Phones, for example. In his youth, he'd have had to send an errand boy and wait for an answer for quite some time. Phones did the deed within minutes.

Within another twenty minutes or so arrived Constable Davies, a tall, tow-headed, curly-haired uniformed policeman in his early thirties, who usually dealt with problems concerning _New Street Station_. He came in with his helmet under his arm, radiating friendliness as was his wont.

In fact, he was the most amiable policeman Mr Roberts had seen in his whole long life. And very polite, too.

"Good day, Mr Roberts," he beamed at the elderly gentleman. "How may I help you, sir?"

Then he spotted Miss Cooper and his expression clouded immediately.

"Has there been a… a _situation_, sir?" he asked delicately.

A _situation_ usually meant that a lady of gentle breeding might have been caught doing something completely inappropriate for her standing and the utmost discretion was required to deal with the case.

Stealing was the most frequent offence. Some gentlemen thought that holding their wives and daughters on a short leash – financially – would be the right thing to do. Some of those wives and daughters, however, weren't too happy with that and tried to help themselves as best as they could. Such unfortunate affairs were always difficult to handle. More so if the family were _truly_ prominent.

Another frequent problem was runaway maids, travelling with the stolen property of their mistresses, pretending to be ladies. Or pleasure women on the look-out for possible customers, molesting the gentlemen travelling alone on the train.

learly, the latter possibilities would be… well, _impossible_ in the case of such a well-known young lady as Miss Cooper. Money, though, could lead the most valorous people on the bent way, and Constable Davies was _not_ looking forward to the necessity of persecuting somebody of Miss Cooper's standing.

Fortunately for him, Mr Roberts reassured him in a great hurry.

"Oh, no! Nothing like that, my dear Constable! All we need is an official witness while we open a few pieces of lost luggage that had not been claimed for ten years.

The blue eyes of Constable Davies lit up in relief – and with professional interest – upon hearing that.

"Do you believe that something might have happened to the owners?" he asked.

"We don't know," admitted Will Stoner. "At least the trunk must have belonged to a woman of a middle-class family, by the look of it. She might have died, she might have run off with an… er… unsuitable fellow in a bout of youthful rebellion. Whatever the case may be, her family would appreciate getting her belongings back."

"I imagine they would," said Constable Davies agreeably. "Well, then, who shall do the honours?"

"I'll leave it to Will's – Mr Stoner's – capable hands," replied Mr Roberts. "After all, this is his station now."

"Thank you, Mr Roberts, sir!"

Beaming with pride, Will Stoner fished a small folding knife from his coat pocket, carefully inserted the tip into the opening of the clasp and tried to turn it. After a couple of tries, the clasp finally gave and they could lift the lid of the trunk.

It was only three quarters full, the contents covered with some white material that was probably a neatly folded petticoat, the corners tucked in. On top of the cover lay a lady's narrow-brimmed top hat, made of grey silk and a pair of grey kid leather gloves, the glove stretchers still stuck in the fingers.

But what caught Constable Davies's attention at once was a long, narrow, cream-coloured envelope. It was addressed to a certain Mr W. Spice in Hawkhurst; but when the Constable opened it, the latter within was written for a woman.

"It's from _The Grand Hotel_, here in Birmingham," he said in surprise. „They acknowledge a reservation for the 6th of September1789. Unfortunately, the name of the woman that had made the reservation is not here."

"Perhaps if we ask the personnel of _The Grand Hotel_," suggested Miss Cooper.

"It is unlikely that anyone would remember," argued Will Stoner. "It's been ten years..."

But Mr Murdoch shook his head.

"They would still have a guest book, or a list of reservations," he said. "Every good hotel has one; and _The Grand Hotel_ is one of the best in Birmingham."

"Then _The Grand Hotel_ it is where the inquiries should be continued," decided Mr Roberts. "However, that is the business of the police from here onwards. Close the trunk again, Will; we should not touch that which might be considered evidence."

"But-but we haven't seen yet what else is in the trunk!" protested Miss Cooper.

"No; and we shan't do so, either," answered Mr Roberts a little sharply. "We do have what we need: a direction in which the police can continue their investigation. There is no need to go through a lady's personal belongings. That would be most improper."

Miss Cooper pouted unhappily, but this was still Mr Roberts's battlefield – at least for the moment – and he was adamant to respect the unknown woman's privacy. Will Stoner therefore closed the trunk with the help of his pocket knife again, and Constable Davies promised to have it brought to the police station, where it would be kept secure till the end of the investigation.

"And now for the suitcase," ordered Mr Roberts.

Will Stoner's trusted pocket knife did the trick again; the suitcase could be opened without any great effort. Will lifted the lid, and for a moment, they all had an odd _déjà vu_ experience.

Once again, the contents of the suitcase were covered with some white fabric; this time a man's nightshirt.

Once again, the corners were tucked in neatly, with almost military accuracy.

And once again, a long, narrow, cream-coloured envelope lay on top of the white cover.

"That is... odd," muttered Constable Davies.

"Perhaps we should take a closer look at the envelope," suggested Miss Cooper.

She was reaching for it already when the stern voice of Mr Roberts stopped her.

"I believe we should leave that to Constable Davies, Miss Gwyneth," said the old gentleman in a tone that brooked no argument.

Miss Cooper huffed in annoyance but did not try to snatch the letter for herself, as had clearly been her first intention.

Constable Davies picked up the envelope gingerly, as if he were afraid that it might burn his fingers, and looked at the sender address first.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he cried in surprise; only to apologise in the first moment profoundly. "Sorry, Miss Cooper. I'm truly sorry. I was caught by surprise for a moment. This letter, too, is from _The Grand Hotel_, it seems."

Opening the envelope, he pulled out an official-looking letter and skimmed it briefly.

"Yes, indeed," he then said. "It's written by the hotel keeper, offering a certain Mr Anderson the position of the night porter. And what's even more interesting: he was supposed to start working on the 6th of September 1879."

"On the very same day for which the unknown woman reserved a room," added Mr Roberts thoughtfully. „That cannot be a coincidence."

"Hardly," Mr Murdoch agreed. "Even less so as both pieces of luggage were found on the same day, on the same platform, only ten days later. There _has_ to be a connection!"

"There most likely is," said Mr Roberts. "And that is why we shall hand over both the trunk and the suitcase to the police. If anything untoward happened to either of those people ten years ago – or to both of them – it is up to the police to find out what it was."

"Right so, Mr Roberts, sir," said Constable Davies gravely. „I shall have both things taken to the police station at once. Inspector Bradstreet enjoys a good mystery, and he's right good at solving them, too."

"Bradstreet... Bradstreet..." Mr Roberts tried to will his memory to cooperate. Strangely enough, he found it easier to remember people and things from the more distant past than recent events. „Wasn't he with the Sussex force before?"

"Until he married the missus, yes" supplied Constable Davies helpfully. "He's been here for the last year and a half already."

"A peerless fellow, that man," added Mr Murdoch gravely. "We were lucky to get him when that terrible Inspector Jones went to Scotland Yard. At least now we shan't have to worry that we might be arrested on a whim, just because the Inspector of Station House Three is having a bad day."

"Oh, come on, Mr Murdoch, he wasn't _that_ bad!" protested Will Stoner, but Mr Murdoch just shook his head grimly.

"Oh yes, he was. Tenacious as a lobster, I shall give him that much, but more often wrong than not, and never ready to admit when he _was_ wrong."

The two porters, the Constable and even Mr Roberts stared at him in surprise. This was the largest speech any of them ever heard from the quiet, mild-mannered clerk. Inspector Athelney Jones must have made a lasting impression on him.

Constable Davies made a mental note to find out what the conflict between Mr Murdoch might have been. It was always useful to know such things.

"Right, then," he finally said. "Thank you for bringing this to our attention. I shall send over someone this afternoon to bring everything to the police station, and we'll look into it as soon as Inspector Bradstreet has a moment."

"Thank you, Constable," replied Mr Roberts. "And should you find out anything about the fate of the owners…"

"I shall inform you, sir," promised Davies.

Then, with a courteous farewell to all, he was gone.

* * *

"Well," said Mr Roberts," it seems we are done here, too. It was more interesting than expected, but I am relieved that it is over, all the same. I cannot deal with too much excitement at my age. All this is yours now, Will," he added, with a sweeping gesture towards the station, and if his eyes were a bit too bright while doing so, everyone pretended that they hadn't noticed it.

"Thank you, sir," answered Will Stoner with feeling. "I shall take good care of everything for you, I promise."

"I know you will, my boy. I know you will," Mr Roberts stood and grabbed his walking stick. "Well, I must be off. Much to do before I move, and Harper has gone to prepare my new home for me, so I'm on my own."

"Crabtree could go with you and help," offered Will, and the younger porter nodded eagerly. But Mr Roberts shook his head.

"You young people have your own work to do; and as of from now, I shan't have anything else to do. Nothing else in the world; nothing but time that has to be filled somehow."

He swallowed hard, then collected himself and walked out of the Lost Luggage office without a backward glance.

~TBC~


	2. Chapter 2: Police Investigation

**An Excellent Mystery**

**aka The Adventure of the Lost Luggage**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The modern version belongs to BBC and Messires Moffat and Gatiss. The items of the lost luggage were borrowed from this website: www. .uk/ lostluggage/ victorians. htm. Remove the breaks and you can see the actual items for yourself.

**Notes to Chapter 02:**

The places mentioned in this chapter are really existing ones, like _New Street Station_ or _The Grand Hotel_. I'm aware of the fact that there was no such thing as a "Birmingham Constabulary". I invented it, based on what we saw about the Toronto Constabulary in "The Murdoch Mysteries", so that I could invent a Chief Constable, someone like Agatha Christie's Colonel Melchett, because I needed him for the future plot development.

The details concerning the Birmingham Police Force are genuine, however. They are borrowed from the excellent article "On the Beat in Birmingham" by David Cross in BBC History. Instead of a Chief Constable, they had a Superintendent as the chief official who was indeed Francis Burgess.

The Inspector Bradstreet featuring here has the personality traits of Inspector Baynes of the ACD canon. I just switched the names because I liked the name Bradstreet better.

For visuals: Inspector Bradstreet is "played" by no-one lesser than Steven Moffat himself, while Miss Evans is "played" by Emilia Fox.

Beta read by my dear friend Linda Hoyland, whom I owe my thanks. All remaining mistakes are mine.

* * *

**Chapter 02 – Police Investigations**

The City of Birmingham was proud of the fact of being one of the few cities that had _not_ signed up to the _Charter of Incorporation_, back in 1832; the charter that allowed towns and boroughs to levy a rate on householders in order to pay for street lighting and cleaning, pavements and for the provision of police, as formed in London by Robert Peel, two years previously.

Not that there would have been anything wrong with the newly established London police; on the contrary. They had proved useful and very effective, in a very short time after their foundation. But Birmingham had been jealous of its independence and didn't want to copy what the Londoners were doing.

Instead of signing up to the Charter, the councillors and magistrates of the City had requested – and been granted – permission to establish a police force of their own. Thus the Birmingham Constabulary had been formed in August 1839, with the Chief constable at the top who was, as the description of his duties listed, _"to direct the officers and men in their respective duties and to make such regulations with regard to the performance of them as he may find conductive to the interests of the service – subject to the approval of the Watch Committee"_ (1)

The first officer shouldering this particular duty had been Francis Burgess, a barrister at Warwick, who'd happened to be a friend of Lord John Russell, the Home Secretary; the same official who had granted permission to establish the Birmingham Constabulary in the first place. He had retired a mere six years ago, succeeded in the office By Captain Jacob Holroyd.

As in other cities, the constables _were_ the backbone of the force; an ever-present sight on the streets in their top hats and tailed jackets. This uniform represented both authority and servitude, for although the police were considered public servants, they were also the public's masters. On duty, the constables carried a truncheon, hand cuffs, an oil lamp, a small wooden rattle to get people's attention and, in some of the more dangerous areas, even a cutlass.

Plain-clothes detectives were introduced a few years later. Their main duty was to circulate lists of stolen property and to check pawnshops as well as investigating more serious crimes. They worked under the guidance of the Detective Inspector. The Detective Inspector was often responsible for the attendance of police officers at court and was therefore able to meet the most regular criminals. Because of this, he needed a good memory for names and events.

Inspector Samuel Bradstreet, leader of the Station House Three of the Birmingham Constabulary, _was_ blessed with an excellent memory… not to mention with an appearance that commanded respect from both the public and the criminal classes. He was a tall, stout official with a ruggedly handsome, sharply lined face, black hair that had yet to begin greying and well-groomed sideburns that would have made a Naval officer proud.

Unlike the detectives under his guidance, he stood out from his surroundings by wearing a peaked cap and a frogged coat. The latter was a reminder of his years spent as a uniformed officer. Years that he was _not_ ashamed of; on the contrary. He often declared the importance of the uniformed troops in keeping up order, and his constables respected him even more for that.

Currently, he was standing in his modest office, eying suspiciously the two battered pieces of lost luggage, brought over from _New Street Railway Station_ and currently sitting on a low table in the corner.

"Can you explain me, Andrew, what this is and what am I supposed to do with it?" he asked Constable Davies morosely.

"These were the oldest pieces Mr Roberts found while cleaning out the Lost Luggage Department before handing it over to his successor," explained the Constable. "We have found some leads to the possible owners, but as they have failed to claim their possessions for the last ten years, there is a strong possibility that either the luggage had been stolen and they didn't know where to look for it, or that they might have fallen victim to some serious crime. Mr Roberts asked us to take a look, in the hope that we might figure out what happened."

The Inspector nodded thoughtfully. Such things were part of their regular duties, even though he had little hope that they might actually succeed in this particular case. Too much time had gone by already.

"We might as well do so," he said. "Crime has been, thankfully, slow in recent weeks; we can afford to do a bit of detective work. It would also give us the chance to try out the new camera Captain Holroyd got us last month."

Constable Davies beamed over his entire visage. Cameras were relatively now in police work but embraced enthusiastically. The first pictorial record had been taken in 1858, in a studio next to the station in Moor Street. Station House Three had got its first camera several years later, and only when Captain Holroyd had taken over as Chief Constable would each station be equipped with their own darkrooms to develop the photographs.

Constable Davies proved to have a gifted hand with new technologies, so using the camera had been assigned to him as a special task. So far, he had not found a reason to try out the new model and was now eager to do so.

"I shall go and set up the camera at once, sir," he offered.

Inspector Bradstreet shook his head, though.

"You'll have time to do so later," he said. "I, however, shan't; not with the disciplinary issue against Leach taking place tomorrow morning. Let us write up the contents of both trunk and suitcase on a numbered list, and you can make your photographs following those lists when you find the time. After ten years, a day or two's delay would hardly count, I suppose."

Constable Davies happily agreed with the plan. Like all unmarried constables, he lived in the police station, in one of the rooms upstairs, so coming down and doing some additional work wasn't a great hardship for him. Less so if said work had something to do with photography or other technical matters.

He was one of the day constables, with his beat being _New Street Station_ and the streets surrounding it, keeping those streets free from hawkers selling goods from suitcases, moving on persons causing and obstruction and looking out for children playing on the street.

All these were important tasks, especially inside and around a railway station, but they did not require actual detective work. Taking photographs of evidence – or of _possible_ evidence, at least – on the other hand _was_ detective work; and a very useful skill if one intended to lay down the uniform and become a plain-clothes detective one day. Which was his not-so-secret ambition.

Inspector Bradstreet knew of this ambition and encouraged Davies to work towards it. He even assigned to him tasks where he could prove his skulls that went beyond traffic or fire duty. Like working on such odd founds.

Therefore, the Inspector called in Miss Evans, the station's only clerk, to write down the aforementioned lists. Miss Evans was a sharp, energetic spinster in her forties (no-one knew what _exactly_ that vague definition meant and no-one dared to actually ask), dressed only a touch above her actual status, with an unruly mass of greying, straw blonde hair that valiantly resisted any effort to keep it in some sort of order. She also wore a _pince-nez_, rimmed with gold wire, and oversleeves of black satin cloth to protect her clothing.

All constables and even the plain-clothes detectives went in holy fear of Miss Evans, for her tongue was every bit as sharp as her mind, and she was never afraid to speak said mind, whether she was asked or not. She even stood up to the Chief Constable, if she had to.

Inspector Bradstreet valued her nonetheless. For not only was she tireless and very precise at work, she was also utterly discreet, despite her outspoken manners. She wouldn't breathe a word about what she'd seen or heard during her working hours.

Now that she'd arrived with her inevitable writing set and notebook, they could finally begin. Inspector Bradstreet decided to start with the trunk, with the reasoning that ladies should go first.

As earlier at the Lost Luggage office, they retrieved the letter written by the housekeeper of _The Grand Hotel_ first, and the Inspector read it carefully.

"You must speak to this Miss Robinson, Andrew," he then said to Constable Davies. "Assuming she's still working there."

"She is," supplied Miss Evans, while jotting down the item in her notebook. "She was in here last week, about some thievery in the hotel."

Miss Evans _always_ knew such things; another reason why Inspector Bradstreet found her so valuable as a clerk.

"Excellent," said he. "See that you speak with her as soon as you can, Andrew. Today, if possible. Tomorrow, if you are too busy today."

"But sir, I cannot leave my beat," the Constable dutifully reminded him.

"Yes, you can if I send you," replied the Inspector. "Now, let us see what else is in this trunk!"

* * *

They began to remove the items systematically, starting with the silk top hat and the gloves that lay right under the letter from _The Grand Hotel_.

"Look at these gloves, Miss Evans," said the Inspector. "Clearly, they must have belonged to a woman. You as a woman, what can you say about them?"

Miss Evans fingered the gloves carefully, as if concerned that her chapped fingertips might cause any damage.

"They are size 6 1/2," said she, "So the lady to whom they belonged was probably a slim person with small, delicate hands. They were made by a very good glove-maker: look at the fine stitches; and hand-sewn, too. Fine workmanship, but not overly expensive. Something a lady from the upper middle class would wear. The wife or daughter of a well-to-do merchant, or of a businessman would be my guess."

"Thank you, Miss Evans, you have been very helpful," said the Inspector. "Pray return to your work as we continue. I might ask for your expert opinion later, should we find other items of ladies' clothing."

The next thing they found was a book, however; one bound in floral-patterned paper, save for the strip over its spine that was faded moss green. Faded were the gilded title and the name of the author written in black upon the front cover. It was one of those romance novels that had been so very popular among the young ladies ten years previously: "Wrongs Righted", penned by a Miss Annie S. Swan – an author neither man had heard before.

Written on the top of the first right-hand page was a name: Alice Spice.

"Perhaps the owner of the book," suggested Constable Davies. "It's the same surname as on the letter. Perhaps the wife or the daughter of that gentleman from Hawkhurst?"

"Good thinking, Andrew," the Inspector leafed through the novel and held up the postcard that had obviously been used as a bookmark.

"Ha!" he exclaimed. "Look at this?"

The postcard was not addressed to anyone in particular and contained a single, short message: _5 pm Boat Train, Restaurant Car_

"Do you believe that this could be of importance, sir?" asked Constable Davies doubtfully. "A great many people travel by the Boat Train. And it is not even addressed to Miss Spice. She might have found it and picked it up to use as a bookmark."

The Boat Train travelled to Dower to meet the passenger boat crossing the Channel to Calais. Another train met the boat there, taking the passengers to Paris. It was a comfortable and very popular method of travelling, used indeed by a great many people, as Constable Davies had rightly pointed out.

"That is possible, of course," allowed the Inspector. "But it is also possible that Miss Spice was to meet somebody on the Boat Train, and the postcard does not have any address on it because it was originally sent in a sealed envelope. Perhaps we shall find an answer when we've finished going through the trunk."

However, what came next were – as they were politely called – a lady's unmentionables: a white camisole as generally worn under the corset, a pair of lady's bloomers, made of the finest white cotton, a long-sleeved night dress of white linen, and a white petticoat, pleated and trimmed with frills.

By then, poor Davies was beetroot red and highly uncomfortable, thus Inspector Bradstreet had pity on him, and asked Miss Evans to help with the unpacking and Davies, who had a neat enough hand, continued writing up the inventory list.

The clothes brush and sewing set, complete with needle case and thimble, were not truly surprising, but the next item confused even the Inspector who had seen his fair share of odd things.

"What is _this_?" he asked, holding up a long, slim… _thing_ that had a wooden handle on one side and was covered with soft leather on the other one.

Miss Evans, however, barely gave it a glance.

"Oh, just a nail buffer," she said dismissively. "Ladies use them to make their fingernails shine. They were quite popular ten years ago when they came into use for the first time; every young lady had one. The fanciest ones even had handles inlaid with mother-of-pearl or ivory."

Inspector Bradstreet cast an involuntary glance at _her_ fingernails, which were short and blunt, with two of them broken.

"Not women like me," she added with a crooked smile. "Those who did not need to _work_, you know."

The Inspector shook his head ruefully. It would have been hard to imagine the resolute, hard-working Miss Evans polishing her fingernails idly with one of these things.

The next item confirmed their theory that they were going through the possessions of a reasonably wealthy woman. It was a lady's walking dress in what had been the latest fashion at the time the trunk was found – and a very expensive one at that, made of heavy, pearl-grey silk, with a pale blue underskirt that was richly trimmed with pleats, flounces, rouching and frills. It had a form-fitting bodice with tight sleeves that again were trimmed with frills.

"I remember when these became the new fashion," commented Miss Evans with a very un-ladylike snort. "All of a sudden, bell-shaped dresses worn with hoops were counted as old-fashioned, and well-to-do ladies had to change their entire wardrobe in the shortest possible time if they did not want to be left behind by their friends. Exchanging the hoop for the bustle was an almost hysterical affair. More so as the new style was only flattering for those of a slim build."

"Which this young lady clearly was, judging by the narrowness of the bodice," said the Inspector.

Miss Evans nodded. "True; though a tightly laced corset could do wonders for a lady's fashionable shape."

"But-but that cannot be healthy!" protested Constable Davis, being a somewhat naïve young man with little to no experience with women's vanities. "Or _comfortable_!"

"Neither of which is its purpose," countered Miss Evans dryly.

Next, they found an empty perfume bottle, made of cut glass, with a bubble pattern decorating its surface. Then came a lady's card case, made of wood, with ebony and ivory veneer. Inside was a single calling card, belonging to Miss Alice Spice, Westminster, London.

"Hmmm," commented Inspector Bradstreet with interest. "Wasn't the letter of _The Grand Hotel_ addressed to a Mr Spice in Hawkhurst, yet clearly meant for a woman?"

Constable Davies studied the letter that had been lying on top of the other contents of the trunk, together with the leather gloves and the silk hat.

"Indeed, sir," he said. "A daughter perhaps?"

"Or an unfaithful wife," replied the Inspector. "We'll see later, hopefully. Set it aside, Davies, together with the letter and the postcard that she used as a bookmark. Written evidence can contain hidden clues that may bring light in the most confusing cases if examined thoroughly. I learned this when I worked with the best detective of London while still with the Surrey force."

"The chief of the London police?" asked Constable Davies, properly impressed.

Inspector Bradstreet shook his head, laughing.

"Oh no, my good man; not a police officer at all. I had the privilege to work on a few cases with a gentleman whose name has become renowned in the whole of Britain in recent years: Sherlock Holmes himself. It was a delight to compete with his extraordinary brilliance, in order to solve some truly twisted cases."

"Do you believe he would enjoy our little local mystery, sir?" asked Davies.

"I rather doubt it," answered the Inspector with a snort. "It would seem too mundane to him; I wager he could solve it by sheer deduction without even leaving the room; just by sitting here, surveying the evidence and then figuring out everything effortlessly."

"He could truly do _that_?"

Like just about everyone in England, Constable Davies _had_ read in the papers about the stunning mysteries solved by the great and mysterious Mr Holmes, but this was the first time he spoke to somebody who'd actually met the man in the flesh.

Inspector Bradstreet nodded. "That and much more. But I'm quite convinced that we can solve this particular riddle without his help."

"He wouldn't take the case anyway, I presume," said Miss Evans tartly. "He usually works for rich and influential people, finding lost diamonds and solving bizarre murder cases. He would never waste his time on such a small problem as a piece of lost luggage."

"_Two_ pieces of lost luggage," corrected Inspector Bradstreet. "And he doesn't care who his client is or if they can pay for his services at all, if the riddle is interesting enough. The riddle is all he cares for, not payment of fame. Unravelling a mystery gives him the greatest satisfaction."

"But what is the big mystery here?" asked Miss Evans doubtfully. "The owners of these things are already known. You can send a wire to these addresses, sir, and tell them to fetch their belonging, and that will be the end of it."

"Oh, I don't think it would be quite that simple," said the Inspector. "Why hasn't either of them collected their luggage for ten years? They were both connected to _The Grand Hotel_, were expected there at the same time. Is that a coincidence? I find that a little hard to believe."

"Do you expect us to find more coincidences, sir?" asked Constable Davies.

"We'll know once we've gone through everything. Now, let's see what other clues might be hiding in this trunk."

The remaining items in the trunk proved most interesting. Firstly, they found a little evening bag. Inside it was an advertisement for a performance of 'Romeo and Juliet' at the _Theatre Royal_ in Birmingham, as well as a ticket for the performance on Wednesday, 5th September, at 7.30pm.

"Dress Circle!" muttered Miss Evans with thinly-veiled envy. "She was sitting in one of the most expensive seats in the entire theatre."

"_If_ she went there at all," said Inspector Bradstreet, handing the sheets to Constable Davies. "Put it there with the other papers, Constable."

The next item was a writing set: a steel nib pen, an ink bottle, a pen tray made of brass and a penny black stamp. Nothing interesting there, as Constable Davies stated, somewhat disappointed, after dutifully telling Miss Evans that the ink now long dried out had once been blue.

"Is that relevant?" she asked in a tone that her personal answer would be a loud and resounding 'no'.

"We can't tell it just yet," said the Inspector. "Better write down a dozen unimportant details than leave out the one that might prove vital afterwards."

Next came some jewellery, scattered together in a small velvet box: a pearl necklace, an amethyst and pearl bracelet and a gold ring.

"The pearls are genuine," declared Inspector Bradstreet, after having performed the biting test, "but the ring is plain, no inscriptions inside. Could it be a wedding band?"

"In any case, the size matches that of the gloves," said Miss Evans, taking a closer look. "Could also be an inherited wedding ring, though, meant to be used for her own wedding at a later time."

"She could still have been married," argued Constable Davies. "Perhaps the gentleman in Hawkhurst can say. She wouldn't have carried with her somebody else's wedding band, would she?"

"Unless she wanted to prevent the marriage from happening," replied the Inspector. "Guessing will lead us nowhere, though. We need more evidence to form a working theory."

"What about this?" Constable Davies lifted a small blue velvet purse, adorned with faded golden tassels on both ends, from the bottom of the nearly empty trunk. "There's some torn up paper in it; probably pieces of a letter or something more official."

"Show me!" the Inspector held out a broad hand imperiously, and Constable Davies obediently piled seven pieces of yellowed paper onto his palm.

Six of them were square pieces of roughly the same size. The seventh one was a long, narrow scrap and had been scrunched up in the corner of the blue purse.

The Inspector smoothed it out carefully and studied it with great interest.

At the top it said: _1875, Alice Spice, Spinster…_

Underneath it said: _Married in this church…_

And under that were two signatures: _Alfred Philip Anderson_

And _Alice…_ but the rest of the name was torn away.

"Ha!" cried out Constable Davies triumphantly. "So they _were_ married after all!"

"Do have the kindness of telling me who _they_ are, Davies," said Inspector Bradstreet dryly.

The fact that he called his subordinate by surname instead of saying 'Constable' or simply 'Andrew' clearly showed his impatience.

"The lady whose trunk this is and the man whom the suitcase belonged," explained Constable Davies.

"And you came to this brilliant conclusion based on which facts exactly?" asked the Inspector with a raised eyebrow.

"In the suitcase, the letter from _The Grand Hotel_, is addressed to a Mr Alfred Anderson, resident in London, Westminster," replied Constable Davies; then he added eagerly. "I can show you the letter, sir."

"Later," interrupted the Inspector. "We need to finish with the trunk first. A proper investigation must have a certain order."

"But we _are_ finished with the trunk, sir!" protested the young constable. "There's nothing else in there!"

"We still haven't examined _these_," Inspector Bradstreet handed the pieces of torn up letter to Miss Evans. "Would you be so kind, Miss Evans, as to fit the pieces together and see if you can read the letter for me? It is written in such a small hand, and my eyes are not what they used to be."

"You really should consider getting some reading aids, sir; there is no shame in that," commented Miss Evans, but she did what had been asked of her.

In an amazingly short time she had all six pieces sorted and fitted together, and they could see that it was a letter indeed. A rather short one, clearly written by a woman.

"It was sent from the _Hotel du Lac_, dated on 3rd August 1879," said Miss Evans. "Where on God's green Earth could _that_ be?"

"It is hard to tell without further details," replied Inspector Bradstreet. "It appears that every bigger lake favoured by gentlefolk in Switzerland, France, or even Italy does have an _Hotel du Lac_. Is there anything in the letter that could help with the location?"

Miss Evans shook her head.

"I'm afraid there isn't, Inspector. Indeed, it is a very superficial letter; something a young lady would send her friend in a hurry, just to keep in touch, and part of it appears to be missing. Shell I read it for you now?"

"If you would be so kind," said the inspector.

Unlike with the Constable, he tried to curb his impatience. Miss Evans was a very reliable co-worker; for that, he turned a blind eye on her minor character flaws; chatting away cheerfully while there were important things to focus on, being one of them.

Miss Evans nodded and did as she was told.

_Dear Alice_, she read

_Hope you and Alfred are going all right. The family are here for a month, and hope it will be good for Miss Harriet, who has been real poorly this last few months. The scenery is very grand, but I miss home…_

Here Miss Evans looked up.

"The bottom strip of the letter is missing, sir," she said, "but somehow the signature remained intact."

"Truly?" that seemed to invigorate the Inspector. "That will help."

"I don't think so, sir," said Miss Evans apologetically. "It's simply signed as 'Betsy'. As I said, a quick note from one young woman to another, in the usual informal style of young people in these days."

"Oh, bother!" Inspector Bradstreet deflated visibly. "Well, it can't be helped. We'll have to look for other clues. Can you put everything but the written documents back in the trunk before we begin to examine the suitcase?"

"Of course, sir," she replied with a faint grin. "It's better for a woman to handle a lady's… _private_ things anyway."

* * *

The resolute and most efficient Miss Evans needed only ten minutes or so to get the trunk packed again, while Inspector Bradstreet carefully stored away every piece of paper found in his briefcase, from the calling card through the postcard-used-as-bookmark and the theatre ticket to the pieces of torn up letter and scrap of marriage certificate. Then they turned their attention to the suitcase.

At first, it yielded nothing but the usual things a man on a journey would carry with him: a buttonhook, a moustache curler, a cut-throat razor with a piece of carbolic soap and a cheap hand mirror. More interesting were a pair of dumb bells, carefully packed away in a cushioned cardboard box.

"Impressive," commented Constable Davies, giving one of the dumb bells a try and nearly dropping it on his feet, not having expected such a weight. "Our man was clearly mindful of his appearance and his health. He must have been quite athletic."

Miss Evans snorted. "Mindful of his appearance perhaps – most men are peacocks, after all – but certainly not his health. Smoking is a bad enough habit in itself, but he also indulged in tobacco snuff," she pulled a disgusted face. "Nasty stuff, it is."

Inspector Bradstreet smiled indulgently. He was quite fond of Hedges snuff himself – the same brand as the tin of tobacco powder found in the suitcase – but he knew that women generally found it vile. His own wife couldn't bear it, so he only used it in his office.

Both the rather battered silver cigarette case and matchbox were empty, though, so their owner had probably given up smoking in favour of the snuff. Whether it had been a good decision in the light of his marriage was another question entirely.

Next came a black overcoat – showing some wear and tear – and a matching black waistcoat. No surprise there; servants were generally expected to wear black. In the pocket of the waistcoat, though, they found an advertisement for a performance of 'Romeo and Juliet' at the _Theatre Royal_ in Birmingham.

"Now _that_ is interesting," commented Inspector Bradstreet, comparing it with the one found in the trunk. They were identical. "And hardly a coincidence, I say. Is there a theatre ticket as well?"

Constable Davies did some more fishing in the waistcoat pocket and came up with a slightly creased ticket indeed.

"It's for the performance on Wednesday 9th September, at 7.30 pm," he said with gleaming eyes. "Again, the same as the other one."

"Only that this is for the Gallery," said Miss Evans, taking a look at the ticket. "_He_ was sitting in one of the cheapest seats of the theatre."

One of the seats in which _she_ was usually sitting. She was a theatre aficionado but could only ever afford a seat on the Gallery – and even that not all too often.

"It is a bit much of a coincidence," said the Inspector in agreement. "Is there anything else in that pocket?"

"Oh yes, sir, indeed there is!" Constable Davies was all but jumping up and down in excitement as he pulled out a small white cardboard box – barely the size of two stamps fitted together – and handed it to his superior.

On the underside of the box was a short, hand-written message that said: _To my beloved Alice from Alfred_.

"Hmmm," said the Inspector, having become an expert in conciliatory gifts during the years of his marriage, due to the long and irregular hours she had to work. "Seems like some sort of jewellery box… a rather cheap one, I say."

_He_ would never dare to try softening Susan's mood towards himself with such cheap trash. His wife wasn't demanding by nature, but she had good taste when it came to jewellery. She could afford it, too.

He opened the box to take a look. It was cushioned with a piece of fake silk, and upon it lay a square brooch,not longer than a woman's little finger. It was made of nice enough silver filigree and set with small white gems – or rather pieces of cleverly cut glass, by the sight of them.

"Not much of a gift for a lady who owns a genuine pearl necklace," said Miss Evans thoughtfully, "but perhaps he couldn't afford anything better. A mismatched couple if I've ever seen one. That rarely turns out well; especially if the woman is the one with the money."

"Perhaps she was attracted to educated men," said Constable Davis, lifting two books out of the suitcase: _The Wonders of Electricity_ by Ascott R. Hope and _Sketches by Boz_ by Charles Dickens. "Some women, especially wealthy ones, like that sort of suitor."

Inspector Bradstreet shook his head.

"I don't think that our Mr Anderson was an educated man. He most likely couldn't afford a formal education. He seems to be self-taught, though; he clearly was interested in new inventions and liked to read books by Mr Dickens, which is commendable."

"Do you like Mr Dickens's writing, sir?" asked Miss Evans in surprise. "I find his stories make me all melancholy."

"They do that," allowed the Inspector. Nonetheless, they have a unique charm. But enough of this. Let's finish examining the suitcase."

Next, they found a box of shirt collars, with two pairs of collar studs – rather nice mother-of-pearl ones, connected by a silver stud, so they were probably a gift from the lady of the trunk – a shirt and a separate collar, a nightshirt and a pair of long johns. Again, nothing a travelling man would _not_ have in his luggage.

The next piece of interest was a photograph. The photograph of a middle-aged woman, wearing a bell-shaped dress; the sort that needed a crinoline to hold the shirts out.

On the back of the photograph was written by a spidery hand: _To Alfred, from your loving mother, Elizabeth Anderson_.

"There's no date," said Constable Davies, disappointed.

"No, but we can be certain that this photograph is at least ten years old," replied Miss Ellis.

Both men gave her baffled look. She sighed and went on explaining them the change of fashion again. Men could be so hard at understanding such things.

"These sorts of dresses were only worn till 1879. That is when the new fashion came out: the bustle. Of course, some old-fashioned ladies _did_ refuse to accept it; or Mrs Anderson might have been too poor to be in fashion."

"Or the photograph was already few years old when given to her son," added Inspector Bradstreet, examining the picture of the stern-faced woman arranged artfully in front of the fireplace again. He couldn't find any clue of when it had been taken, though, so he put it away, together with the letter from _The Grand Hotel_.

Next the suitcase yielded a small tinware travelling cup, packed away in a matching case- Constable Davies unscrewed the round lid, removed it and sniffed.

"Ten years since it was used and one can still smell the whiskey," he said. "Our Mr Anderson must have had a hip flask of whiskey to accompany him on his travels. The Missus probably did not approve, though."

"Most likely not," agreed Inspector Bradstreet.

Some women had a queer reaction to their men drinking. His own wife was more tolerant in this area, but he was careful _not_ to get thoroughly drunk when he was likely to encounter her. She didn't approve of _that_, either, and she was the one with the money and the connections.

So far this had caused no quarrel between them, but he was well aware of the fact that Susan's connections had secured him this enviable post in Birmingham and made sure not to provoke her too much. Fortunately for him, she was a patient soul with her own interests, but one could not be too careful though.

Especially when there was one's imperious mother-in-law to consider.

The last thing in the suitcase was a pair of gaiters – the sort worn in the countryside to prevent mud splashing onto one's trousers and to keep trouser legs dry. They were wrapped around the legs below the knee and either laced or buttoned up. This particular pair was the laced-up variety.

"That's odd," said Constable Davies. "What would a night porter of a fancy hotel need gaiters for? A gardener I would understand, or a stable hand. But a porter?"

"It might be some remnant from a previous employment," said Inspector Bradstreet. "We'll know once we've found that Mr Edmonds mentioned by the hotel keeper and spoken with him. Is that all?"

"No, sir," replied Constable Davies, "There is also this."

_This_ was a scrap of paper lying on the bottom of the now empty suitcase. Davies fished it out and handed it to his superior. It appeared to be a strip from a marriage certification, with just a few random details remaining.

… _in the Church of St. John._

_Residence: 64 Tatchbrook Street, City of Westminster, London_

_Condition: Bachelor_

_Rank or profession: gardener_

"Well, that explains the gaiters," said the Inspector. "And also gives us a few clues of which direction to begin our investigation."

"What investigation?" asked a new voice from the half-open door; a voice with an accent that sounded like a haphazard mix of American and Scottish.

"And what are you doing here anyway, instead of dealing with the misdeeds of PC Leach?" continued the newcomer, entering the room without invitation. "Organising a charity fair for the widows and orphans of policemen killed in the line of duty?"

Inspector Bradstreet suppressed a resigned sigh. He had hoped to solve their interesting little mystery before the Chief Constable could catch wind of it. Apparently, he wouldn't have such luck.

Captain Holroyd had very clear definitions of what belonged under the jurisdiction of the Birmingham Constabulary and what didn't, and the Inspector had the glum feeling that the mystery of the lost luggage would _not_ be seen as their problem by his superior.

"Just investigating some pieces of lost luggage, probably connected with persons who've gone missing ten years ago, sir," he said, knowing all too well that said investigation would most likely end here and now."

~TBC~


	3. Chapter 3: Captain Holroyd Weighs In

**An Excellent Mystery**

**aka The Adventure of the Lost Luggage**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The modern version belongs to BBC and Messires Moffat and Gatiss. The items of the lost luggage were borrowed from this website: www. .uk/ lostluggage/ victorians. htm. Remove the breaks and you can see the actual items for yourself.

**Notes to Chapter 03:**

For visuals: Captain Holroyd is "played" by John Barrowman, while his wife Emily is "played" by Heather Craney. They are both OCs, with no equivalent in either the ACD novels or in the TV-series. Torchwood fans will know where they came from. *g*

The case of PC George Leach is a genuine one, marked in The Birmingham Police force 'Default Book' for 1939/40. I just moved it forward for half the century because I found it worth remembering. It doesn't get into any detail about what 'highly disgraceful behaviour in Church' meant in this case, so I had to come up with that part myself.

The _Café_ _Royal_ was not a really existing place in Birmingham. I made it up for my ladies to have a place to meet. The London clubs mentioned throughout this story, on the other hand, were. Some of them still are.

According to my amazing beta, Linda Hoyland, there wasn't a woman coroner in Britain until 1951. I bow to her greater knowledge – consider Dr Sawyer the undue influence of "The Murdoch Mysteries". :)

* * *

**Chapter 03 – Captain Holroyd Weighs In**

Captain Jacob Holroyd, Chief Constable of the Birmingham Constabulary – affectionately called 'Jack' by his numerous friends, admirers and sponsors - was an imposing man, both in looks and by reputation.

Coming from a moderately wealthy family of lesser Scottish nobility, he had spent his childhood travelling with his parents and siblings across the Northern Americas, from Canada to the Mexican border, which provided him with a much broader horizon than people of his social class usually possessed.

Upon coming of age, he returned to Britain and joined Her Majesty's armed forces, serving as an infantry officer in India and fighting in the Second Anglo-Afghan War, in which he was severely injured and therefore had to retire from active duty. During his recovalescence at home he met his current wife (the first one, an artistically inclined Frenchwoman by the name of Estelle having died young somewhere in Agra or Delhi, no-one was quite sure about that detail), a Miss Emily Craney. They married six months later, after Captain Holroyd had fully recovered from his injury.

Miss Craney, heiress of a rich Birmingham industrialist, had been leading a very successful school for orphaned girls, where said girls could be taught and properly trained to earn a living once they grew up. Usually, they produced private teachers, nurses and servants for the wealthy, and said families were more than satisfied with the results.

Miss Emily was said to have enjoyed working with these poor, unfortunate girls (even though she scared them to death from time to time). She gave up it all willingly nonetheless to become Mrs Holroyd. She still kept a close eye on the school – she had to keep up the reputation of what she had built up there – but from the safe distance of a benefactress instead of that of a headmistress.

It was more comfortable that way; besides, she had other social obligations, now that she was a married woman – and married to somebody from the country gentry at that! The Holroyds might not be particularly wealthy, but the marriage opened doors for her in society that previously had been closed. And no-one could deny that she looked radiant at the parties of Birmingham's elite, due to her money and her excellent taste in clothes.

Unlike his wife, Captain Holroyd was not particularly interested in changes of fashion. Oh, he was _always _impeccably clad, Mrs Holroyd saw into _that_, but – being an ex-soldier –his fashion style was pleasantly subdued. And, though he had the right to keep using his rank and wear a uniform on special occasions, he very rarely did so. Neither did he put the ribbons of his medals on his civilian coat as many retired officers tended to on social gatherings. He was a man remarkably indifferent towards his own past, who made a conscious effort to live in the present, knowing that this was the only thing one could truly do.

Currently, he was wearing a beautifully tailored, dark grey lounge suit with a crispy white dress shirt, a deftly wrapped white Ascot tie, fastened with a silver tiepin that had a diamond head. His collar studs were silver and set with diamonds. A dove-grey overcoat cut in the Chesterfield shape and with a short shoulder cape worn over it, plus a Broadway silk hat of the same colour completed the picture of fashionable wealth and importance.

Not that he needed such help to look imposing; he managed it well enough on his own. He was a tall man, well over six foot, with the breadth of chest and shoulders sufficient to fill out both uniform and civilian jackets most impressively. Due to his boyishly handsome features and very bright eyes, he looked considerably younger than he actually was, and his well-groomed sideburns gave his appearance a romantic flair.

He also had very white teeth, presumably due to the practice of chewing on a particular sort of tree bark, which he had learned from some primitive tribe on one of his many journeys. Whether _that_ was true or not, no-one could tell. But the fact remained that people instinctively closed their eyes when he smiled, to prevent going blind.

At the moment, however, he didn't seem to be in a smiling mood. In fact, he looked thoroughly annoyed.

"Tell me, Inspector, why are you wasting time and effort on such mundane things as lost luggage when we have a disciplinary problem to solve?" he demanded. "Not to mention all the thieves and robbers and cut-throats that are still running free in our city? Do you two truly have so much time on your hands? Because we can easily remedy _that_!"

"It is more than just a case of lost luggage, sir," Inspector Bradstreet tried to explain. "Mr Roberts found these in the Lost Luggage Department of New Street Station while he was taking the inventory with his successor. They haven't been claimed for ten years, and we found evidence that the owners used to know each other rather… intimately."

"_How_ intimately?" asked the Chief Constable, images of possible scandals clearly hushing by before his eyes.

"We've reason to believe that they were married to each other," replied the Inspector. "They were both expected to stay in _The Grand Hotel_ at the same time, though arriving separately and perhaps from different places. Their luggage was found on the same day, left together on the same platform – and never claimed."

"Ten years ago, hmmm?" said Captain Holroyd thoughtfully.

He'd still been in the Army at that time.

The Inspector nodded. "Ten years ago, sir. We assume that something might have happened to them or else at least one of them would have gone back for their things. Especially for the dress or the jewellery of the lady, both of which look rather expensive."

"Hmmm," the Chief Constable considered the issue for a moment. "Did you find out the identity of the owners?"

"Yes, sir," answered Inspector Bradstreet. "The trunk apparently belonged to a Miss Alice Spice from Hawkhurst, while the owner of the suitcase was a Mr Alfred Anderson, from Westminster."

"Neither Hawkhurst nor Westminster lies within our jurisdiction," Captain Holroyd reminded him. "We are not entitled to investigate outside Birmingham. Do you have the addresses?"

"Yes, sir. Fortunately for us, both had kept the letter from _The Grand Hotel_, with verifications of room reservation and the offer of employment, respectively."

"Excellent," said Captain Holroyd. "Send notifications to those addresses. If no-one comes to claim the luggage, say, within three months, all this will be given to the poor. Case closed."

"But sir," Inspector Bradstreet tried to protest, dismayed that he would lose the chance to solve such an intriguing little mystery, but the Chief Constable clearly was not in the mood to indulge in the personal whims of his subordinates.

"Not a word, Inspector!" he said warningly. "Not a word! You have a more urgent problem to deal with right now – a problem called PC Leach – and I strongly suggest that you _do_ deal with it. I want that problem solved. Preferably yesterday."

He didn't wait for an answer – not that the poor Inspector would have one – just turned on his heel and stormed off, with a dramatic billowing of his shoulder cape.

Inspector Bradstreet sighed dejectedly. He couldn't deny that his superior had been right. The case of PC Leach needed to be dealt with – once and forever.

The somewhat hapless George Leach – a well-meaning lad but unfortunately of dubious character – had joined the force in last July. On 3rd September, he'd been found absent from his duty beat at 9 pm and found drinking in the _White Lion_ beer shop, in the company of whores and thieves.

Not the best way to begin one's career as a police officer, but Inspector Bradstreet decided to give him a second chance and only had him fined two day's pay, hoping that he would learn from his mistakes. He was still very young, after all, and young people could be moulded.

For a while, it seemed that he had learned his lesson indeed. But a fortnight ago, George had been reported for 'highly disgraceful behaviour in Church' – apparently, he had gone blind drunk to evensong and then thrown up all over the Vicar – and the Chief Constable was adamant that he should be dismissed from the service.

Despite all of the lad's shortcomings, Inspector Bradstreet was reluctant to dismiss him. Leach would have made a good constable, if only he could have got his drinking habit under control. Unfortunately, he seemed unable to do so, and after the latest scandal in church there was nothing the Inspector could do for him.

"All right, Andrew," he said in resignation. "Try to fit everything into the suitcase again and put both it and the trunk into storage until – _if_ – someone comes to claim them. Miss Evans, do come with me. I cannot delay dealing with George any longer, and I need you to set up a written record. A shame, really, but this is a hole the lad has dug for himself."

"What about the documents, sir?" asked Constable Davies. "Shall I take photographs, just in case?"

After a moment of consideration, the Inspector nodded decisively. "Yes, you should do that… just in case."

After all, there was always a faint chance that he might do some investigation in his spare time – such as it was in these days.

* * *

"Alice Spice?" asked Mrs Emily Holroyd with interest during afternoon tea, watching her husband over the rim of her teacup. "The daughter of Mr _William_ Spice of Hawkhurst Old Place?"

"You know them?" asked Captain Holroyd, equally surprised.

His wife was a vivacious blonde with a razor-sharp mind and excellent connections, all of which she concealed with fashionable clothing and a seemingly distracted manner that fooled most people. Even after several years of matrimony, he was surprised by the sheer amount of people she seemed to know.

She shrugged noncommittally. "Mostly from hearsay, in truth. Mr Spice is an old business friend of my father; they used to have dealings with each other a decade or two ago. I never actually met him, but I do know that his only daughter had run away with a most… undesirable man. She seemed to have come to her senses and returned home after a year or two… for a while anyway. She left again and never came back. That was…"

"Ten years ago?" asked her husband, and she nodded.

"That should be about right, yes. Do you think we might finally learn what happened to her? Can your people find out?"

Captain Holroyd shook his head. "No, that is not their job. They cannot go to Hawkhurst or London to investigate. There are clearly drawn lines separating the jurisdiction of the respective police forces; it would lead to all sorts of problems if we tried to meddle with matters in somebody else's territory."

Emily rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Therefore Mr Spice is going to lose this unhoped-for chance to find his daughter – or at least to learn the truth about her fate – so that none of the police chiefs would get trodden on his toes? How very… _manly_ of you!"

Captain Holroyd suppressed a sigh. Sometimes it wasn't easy to deal with his wife. He was used to Estelle's slightly vague semi-presence in his life; after _that_, Emily's abundance of energy could be exhausting.

"I can't help it, dear," he said. "Those are the rules; I don't make them, but I have to follow them. Your friend can always engage a private detective. That is what these people _do_, isn't it? Looking for missing persons. I assume Mr Spice is wealthy enough to afford it."

Mrs Holroyd was far from being happy with that answer but she knew when she should _not_ press an issue. She decided instead to write a letter to her father's old business associate right after tea. Therefore, she retired to her private drawing room as soon as her husband had left for his club and instructed her maid to bring her writing set and stationary.

The maid, incidentally also called Alice, was a product of her girls' school – a juvenile thief whom she had taken into her house because she believed in rehabilitation – and completely devoted to her. Which came in handy when she needed to get things done between Jacob's back.

Oh, she didn't cheat on her husband! _That_ would have been mundane, and Emily Holroyd (née Craney), although of common birth, was _anything_ but mundane. But she liked to indulge in certain activities that, while generally harmless, were frowned upon when indulged in by well-bred ladies.

Like smoking.

Captain Holroyd, being a man of strong moral principles, also disapproved some of his wife's friends. One of those was Mr Langdale Pike, an old acquaintance of Emily's father, whom Captain Holroyd never called anything else but 'that old gossipmonger' – and not without a reason, if one wanted to be honest.

Another one was Dr Sawyer, the coroner working with the police, who was a perfectly respectable person as such. But even an open-minded man like Captain Holroyd felt uncomfortable by the thought of a young lady of a good family cutting open dead bodies in the morgue. Meeting the same young lady in his wife's saloon for tea was even more uncomfortable for him, as he was used to dealing with Dr Sawyer in her official capacity.

Mrs Holroyd preferred to have a quiet and restful house – which was why she didn't have any children and insisted on having those of the servants out of sight as much as possible – therefore she simply kept many of her social activities from her husband. It was easier so, for both parties. And her trusted and devoted maid was eminently useful for running errands behind Captain Holroyd's back.

This time, however, it wasn't necessary to do so. Not even dear Jacob – Emily _never_ called her husband 'Jack', that was something for the old Army mates, not for one's lady wife – could find anything wrong with her sending a letter to Mr Spice about the sudden reappearance of his daughter's belongings. In fact, she would spare the police the effort, wouldn't she?

And if she was about to send Susan Bradstreet a little note at the same time she sent Alice to the post office, there was _nothing_ wrong with _that_. She and Susan were old friends, had gone to school together and remained in touch ever since. That Susan always could learn more about things going on in town through Police Station House 3 was just an added bonus.

Not from the Inspector, of course, who had the ridiculous idea that his wife had to be spared the ugliness he dealt with on a daily basis. Emily shook her head in annoyance. Men could be so blind sometimes! They accepted _other_ women – especially those of the lower classes – faced said ugliness, indeed, had to _live_ in it full time, yet they held on to the image of their own wives as fragile flowers that could not endure the hard facts of reality.

_Nothing_ had less likeness to a fragile flower than Emily Holroyd. Or Susan Bradstreet, for that matter. But they both knew that trying to persuade their respective husbands of the fact would have been a hopeless endeavour.

They were grateful for the likes of Miss Evans, who were so flattered by the attention of the ladies above their own standing that they readily shared their knowledge about the daily events at the police station. Oh, they knew well enough _not_ to speak of anything that might hinder an ongoing investigation – they didn't want to lose their work, after all – but the ladies were mostly interested in gossip anyway. Gossip could be very useful in their social circles.

Mrs Holroyd briefly considered the best order to do things that had to be done, and then she began to write. First the note to Mrs Bradstreet, as it was much easier to compose.

_Dear Susan_, (she wrote)

_I've heard some intriguing news about an old __acquaintance__ of Father's. I believe your source can provide us with more detail. Meet me at the _Café Royal_ for tea tomorrow; we __had__ best discuss this in private._

_Yours affectionately,_

_Emily_

The _Café Royal_ was a fairly new, French-style establishment near the _Theatre Royal_, for the performances of which it also sold tickets as a side-line – hence the name. Basically, it was a tea shop (offering several _excellent_ blends), where one could sit in and have tea, coffee (of course; the ladies preferred it with a shot of Armagnac, which pleasantly complemented the natural bitterness of the beverage) and a stunning variety of tarts, cakes, scones and other baked goods.

Men usually considered it beneath their dignity to visit it, calling it simply 'that French place' (even though the owner was a local woman with a good business sense) and refused to set foot in it. Which made the place eminently suited for ladies of the upper classes to meet and gossip without being disturbed. Emily Holroyd and her friends had patronised the café since it opened four years previously.

Having written the note for Susan, Emily now started on the longer – and much more formal – one for Mr Spice. It took her the better part of an hour to write it, and when she was finished, it looked like this:

_To: Mr William S. Spice_

_Hawkhurst Old Place_

_The Moor 2_

_Hawkhurst, Kent_

_From: Mrs Emily Holroyd_

_12 Church Street_

_Birmingham_

_Dear Mr Spice,_

_You may not remember me, but I am certain that you remember my father, Mr Arthur Craney, with whom you have had business associations a few years ago. Based on this fact I hope you will forgive me for taking the liberty to contact you._

_It has come to my attention that a piece of lost luggage belonging to your daughter Alice had been found at New Street Railway Station, here in Birmingham. In fact, it has lain at the Lost Luggage Department of the railway station for the last ten years. It is sensible to assume that there may be clues that can help to find out what has really happened to Miss Spice._

_The police have decided not to make any further investigations into the case. My Husband, who is the Chief Constable of the Birmingham force, ordered the trunk of your daughter to be stored at Police Station House 3, in New Street, where it will be kept for the following three months, __during __which time you may claim it. After that, it will be given to the poor, with all its contents._

_My husband also says that the Birmingham Constabulary is not empowered to investigate outside their jurisdiction, which is why he has declared the case closed. You can, however, always engage a private investigator and have him look deeper into the matter._

_I hope you will be successful in your search and I ask you respectfully to inform me about the outcome of any potential enquiries, if you would not mind._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Emily Holroyd_

Mrs Holroyd folded the letter, put it into the already addressed envelope and handed it to her maid, together with the brief note to Mrs Bradstreet.

"See that they are both sent at once," she ordered.

"Yes, Madam," answered the girl dutifully and, after a backward glance of pure admiration at her mistress, she hurried off.

* * *

At Police Station House 3, Constable Davies was struggling with a letter of his own. An official one, in his case.

Outside it was rapidly growing dark. He had gone off-duty a little more than four hours ago and been busy taking photographs of every single item in the trunk of Miss Spice and the suitcase of Mr Anderson. That would cost the police a pretty penny – he had to buy a new batch of chemicals to develop the pictures – but that was not his problem. Inspector Bradstreet had ordered the photographs taken; Inspector Bradstreet would have to take the blame. He, one constable among the many, was merely carrying out his orders.

Not that he would have wished Inspector Bradstreet to get in any trouble. On the contrary. The Inspector was a very considerate superior – small wonder as he had started his career as a uniformed officer, too – who always treated his subordinates most justly. The case of poor Leach showed what lengths he was willing to go for his men… until he could no longer do anything for them. Which he always regretted.

And Mrs Bradstreet, though everyone knew that _she_ was the one with the money, was always very nice to the simple constables and police clerks whenever she visited the station house. She regularly invited Miss Evans to that French place for tea, and Miss Evans was always beside herself – she couldn't have afforded that on her modest salary. And when Mrs Bradstreet brought their son with her, a delightful lad of six years, little Louis was every bit as friendly to everyone as his parents.

Yes, they were nice people.

But Inspector Bradstreet was more than just that. He was a very good policeman; one with a shrewd understanding of human nature, a sharp mind and excellent attention to detail. His gut instinct rarely erred. One could learn a great deal by watching him at the scene of a crime. He noticed small things most other people would have overlooked and often solved a crime that baffled everyone based on these small details.

When praised for the results, he usually just shrugged in embarrassment and muttered something about having learned his methods by watching Sherlock Holmes at work. Constable Davies could believe that easily. After all, he had been trying to do the same for years, by watching Inspector Bradstreet.

There was one thing the Inspector wasn't good at, though, and that was writing letters to the families of murder victims or missing persons they hadn't been able to find. Fortunately, he didn't have to do that often; most victims were from Birmingham, where he could simply send a constable to escort their family members to the station house and speak with them in person.

This time, however, he couldn't get around it. To his relief Mrs Holroyd had turned out to know the father of Miss Spice and offered to write to him; but there was still the letter that had to be written to Mr Anderson's mother – assuming that she was still alive and still lived at the same address her son had ten years ago.

Taking pity on his superior, Constable Davies had offered to write the letter himself. He was generally very good with witnesses and the victims' families. They seemed to like him and trust him at once. So he thought it would be an easy enough task. He'd never expected it to be so hard when he couldn't _see_ the person whom he was telling the bad news.

Or the complete lack of _any_ news, in this case.

"Difficult, eh?" asked Higgins, the night constable, gently and walked down from the front counter to look over his colleague's shoulder.

He was a large, stocky man with a surprisingly soft, deep voice and a huge, iron-grey beard that would have made Saint Peter blanch with envy. All night constables were required to grow a beard that 'would cover their throat to keep their air tubes warm', as the regulations released in 1840 – and not changed ever since – instructed, but Constable Higgins made a work of art of it.

He was very proud of his beard, and as he had no wife to complain about it, he could allow it to grow as long and bushy as he pleased. The street urchins sometimes herded into the station house (usually on freezing winter nights when they would otherwise freeze to death on the streets) loved him for it and called him Grandfather Higgins, which only made him even prouder.

"It _is_ difficult," admitted Constable Davies. "How are you supposed to tell an elderly lady that her son has apparently gone missing ten years ago and is probably dead, yet no-one has ever cared to look after him?"

"Why should your tell her anything like that?" asked 'Grandfather' Higgins. "We don't _know_ that, do we? All we know is that a suitcase apparently belonging to her son was found, after having gathered dust in a forgotten corner of the Last Luggage Department for years. Everything else is merely guesswork."

"Are you saying I should write just _that_?" protested the younger policeman.

Constable Higgins shrugged his massive shoulders.

"Those are the _facts_, Andy. Why bother her with any of your theories? It is possible that Mr Anderson simply didn't remember where he'd lost his suitcase and to have been living without it safe and sound in his mother's house all these years."

"Possible… but not very likely," said Constable Davies, and the older man nodded in agreement.

"No, it isn't. But she doesn't need to know _that_. Now, write the ruddy letter and go to sleep or you'll be of no use on the beat tomorrow.

Constable Davies knew that his older, more experienced colleague was right. He would need his wits about him in the morning when he took up his duties again; and for that, he needed sleep.

One more time he gathered his thoughts and began to write.

_Madam,_

_It is my duty to inform you that a suitcase belonging to your son, Mr Alfred Anderson, has been found at the _New Street Railway Station_ in Birmingham, after it had __been stored__ at the Lost Luggage Department for years. You or any other member of your family can claim the suitcase any time in the next three months, after which it will be given to the poor._

_Please state your intentions regarding your son's belongings._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Police Constable Andrew Davies,_

_Police Station House 3_

_New Street, Birmingham_

He addressed the envelope to Mrs Elisabeth Anderson at 64 Tatchbrook Street, City of Westminster, London, put the carefully folded letter and a newly developed photograph of the suitcase into it, sealed it and handed it to Constable Higgins.

"Can you send it out with the rest of the official post in the morning before you go off-duty?" he asked, and the older constable nodded.

"Will do. See that you get some decent sleep, lad."

"I intend to," replied Constable Davies with a heartfelt yawn and then he left for his room.

It had been a long day, and the next one promised to be no shorter; although, perhaps, a little less exciting.

* * *

"Does this mean that the police won't do _anything_ to find out what happened to these people?" demanded Miss Gwyneth Cooper in bitter disappointment the next afternoon.

She was sitting with her friends in the _Café Royal_, having tea. On this particular afternoon, the exclusive circle of local nobility included Mrs Holroyd, Mrs Bradstreet and Dr Sawyer, the police coroner, and herself. There were others who belonged to it – all coming from the upper classes of Birmingham, their status based on money rather than birth, with the exception of Dr Sawyer.

But it was always Mrs Holroyd who invited the individual members to these little get-togethers, her selection based on the occasion. She was the unchallenged head of their group, being the only one married into the country gentry.

Well, Dr Sawyer _could_ have challenged her – she was the eldest child of a local landowner, after all – but she had no ambitions to do so. A shy, graceful and strangely vulnerable person – at least for somebody who worked in a morgue – she was content to remain in the background and leave the role of the leader to the resolute Mrs Holroyd.

"James _wanted_ to," replied Mrs Bradstreet. "He likes his mysteries. But Captain Holroyd said he couldn't. Both people came from outside their jurisdiction."

She was a short, athletic blonde with a mobile, though not particularly beautiful face, attractive through her energy, intelligence and unfailing fashion sense rather than her looks. Right now, she seemed moderately annoyed on her husband's behalf; she was a devoted and very loyal wife.

Mrs Holroyd nodded. "Unfortunately, that is true. There are regulations for these things. And Jacob is fairly new to the office; he cannot afford to step on anyone's toes."

"Neither can James," admitted Susan Bradstreet with an unhappy sigh. "It bothers him very much, though. He doesn't say so, but I can see. He's got this particular expression, you know," she frowned fiercely to demonstrate. "He _always_ has this expression when something bothers him; mostly something related to his work."

Miss Cooper ignored her. She couldn't care less about Inspector Bradstreet's peace of mind, although not even she was scatter-brained enough to say it. One did _not_ cross Susan Bradstreet when it came to her husband.

"I understand you used to know one of the victims?" she asked Mrs Holroyd instead.

"We don't know if there _were_ any victims to speak of," corrected Emily Holroyd. "There could have been a number of reasons why these people haven't come back for their luggage. A number of perfectly _innocent_ reasons."

"But you don't think so, do you?" asked Miss Cooper slyly.

Mrs Holroyd shrugged and looked askance at Mrs Bradstreet.

"It seems that those two had a connection," replied the Inspector's wife carefully.

She could have spared herself the effort as Miss Cooper pounced at once.

"What kind of connection? Did they have an illicit affair?" The possibility seemed to delight her unduly.

"No," said Mrs Bradstreet dryly. "Apparently, they were married. To each other," she added, mostly for Miss Cooper's sake, who was inclined to draw the most scandalous conclusions.

The other ladies gave her admiring looks for finding out such important details in so short a time.

"Are you sure?" asked Mrs Holroyd. "Admittedly, I never actually met Alice Spice, but her father and mine did business together and I never heard that she'd have married."

Mrs Bradstreet nodded. "Quite sure. Two individual pieces of their torn up marriage certificate have been found in her trunk and in the man's suitcase, respectively."

For a moment, the ladies were stunned with surprise.

"Now _that_ is interesting," said them Mrs Holroyd slowly. "I wonder if Mr Spice knew about the marriage at all."

"If he did, he would not have approved," answered Mrs Bradstreet. "According to the marriage certificate the man was a mere gardener; hardly suitable for a wealthy industrialist's little girl."

"Mr Spice is more than just a rich man," said Dr Sawyer,.speaking for the first time. "He is the last living member of the Ellsworth family that used to own Hawkhurst and some of the adjacent lands. Few people know this, of course, as the last actual Ellsworth was his mother, but it is true nonetheless. He'd have wanted a more suitable husband for Alice; had he known about her intentions, he'd have found a way to prevent this marriage."

"You knew the girl, then?" asked Mrs Holroyd.

Dr Sawyer nodded – vaguely, as she did everything aside for her work.

"We met a few times when I was very young; my mother had family in Kent. And we visited _Almack's Assembly Rooms_ in London at the time when we were just coming of age, at our parents' insistence. But we never truly socialised with each other."

"_Almack's_?" Mrs Bradstreet frowned. "Wasn't it closed in 1871 or so? I remember my mother complaining about it; not that we'd ever been members there."

"It was sold and renamed _Willis's Rooms_," corrected Dr Sawyer. "But no-one truly used the new name. Everyone still called it _a__lmack's_, and why shouldn't they? It was a perfectly good name, with a long tradition. It was stupid to have it changed."

"I heard it never was the same afterwards," said Mrs Bradstreet.

Dr Sawyer shrugged. "Perhaps. It was still a pleasant place with much dancing and gambling. The refreshments were not as opulent as those of private balls; mostly thinly sliced bread with fresh butter and dry cakes, and only tea and lemonade were served in the supper rooms, just like in old times."

The other ladies stared at her in surprise. It was the first time _ever_ that they would hear the shy doctor speak so much.

"You _liked_ the place," realised Mrs Holroyd.

"I did," admitted Dr Sawyer. "Even if it was a thinly veiled marriage mart for gentlemen of good families looking for suitable brides. But the dancing was enjoyable, and it was one of the very few places where you could meet unattached young gentlemen without gaining a bad reputation. And their gambling rooms were grand," she added, blushing. "I always liked playing cards."

Mrs Holroyd smiled benevolently. As a married woman of some importance, she generally showed a maternal attitude towards Dr Sawyer, although the doctor was barely two or three years younger.

"We all like a little gambling to spice up our life," she said; then she turned to Mrs Bradstreet. "And your husband just told you about the marriage?"

"Of course not," replied Mrs Bradstreet with a rather un-ladylike snort. "James _never_ tells me anything about his work, you know that. But I did pay Station House Three a visit this morning and took Louis with me. You know how all the women love him. And while Miss Evans was suitably distracted by entertaining him, I managed to take a look at the inventory lists she'd written yesterday. Constable Davies even had a bunch of photographs taken that were very conveniently placed on James's desk."

The ladies exchanged delighted smiles. Susan Bradstreet had always been the most skilled and most adventurous one among them. Besides, it wasn't _their_ fault that their respective husbands – or _future_ husbands, in Miss Cooper's case – treated them like children.

Like somewhat slow-witted children, at that.

"A shame that you could not… er… _borrow_ some of the photographs," said Miss Cooper, clearly a little disappointed. I'd have loved to see what was in that trunk. _And_ in the suitcase."

"Nothing of true interest; at least not what I can tell, based on the inventory lists," said Mrs Bradstreet. "Save for the fact that Alice Spice obviously had poor taste in both books and men; though a good fashion sense. That walking dress of hers would still be looked at today. Ten years ago it must have been a marvel."

"I wonder how she could afford it, having married somebody so much beneath her social status," commented Dr Sawyer thoughtfully. "Unless she'd come to her senses and left him in preferring to go home."

"That is exactly what might have happened," said Mrs Holroyd. "I know she'd run away with a most unsuitable man but returned home after a fairly short while."

"And yet she planned to meet her husband here in Birmingham," pointed out Mrs Bradstreet.

"Did she, though?" asked Dr Sawyer doubtfully.

Mrs Bradstreet nodded. "Oh yes! It can be hardly a coincidence that they were about to stay at _The Grand Hotel_ at the same time. The question is what Miss Spice – or rather Mrs Anderson – wanted from her husband: reconciliation or a divorce?"

"If it was the latter, it couldn't have been an easy task for her," said Dr Sawyer, better versed in legal matters than the other ladies, due to her profession.

"No," agreed Mrs Holroyd. "He would have legal access to her wealth, thanks to their marriage; and a penniless man like Mr Anderson would hardly give up his right to so much money."

"_Was_ Miss Spice truly so rich?" asked Miss Cooper, slightly envious.

"Her _father_ was – he still _is_ – very rich," said Mrs Holroyd. "But she would have a generous monthly allowance, courtesy of her father. Mr Spice always doted on his only child. Which is why I'm fairly certain that not only will he come to claim her belongings but he will also engage a private investigator to find out the truth behind her disappearance."

"You wrote to him?" asked Mrs Bradstreet, and Mrs Holroyd nodded.

"I wrote to him. And I have little doubt that a worldly man like him _will_ find the right person to look into this case."

"James will be disappointed," said Mrs Bradstreet with a faint smile. "But at least we _will_ learn the truth, too, won't we?"

"Oh, yes," replied Mrs Holroyd with steely determination. "_I will_ see to _that_."

Much comforted by that promise – which, they knew, their friend would keep, no matter what – the ladies of Birmingham's elite turned their attention to other matters of local gossip. There were minor scandals and sensations going on, after all, and they needed to keep up with everything that was happening, at any given time.

~TBC~


	4. Chapter 4: Excellent Connections

**An Excellent Mystery**

**aka The Adventure of the Lost Luggage**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The modern version belongs to BBC and Messires Moffat and Gatiss. The items of the lost luggage were borrowed from this website: www. .uk/ lostluggage/ victorians. htm. Remove the breaks and you can see the actual items for yourself.

**Notes to Chapter 04:**

For visuals: Mr Spice is 'played' by Anthony Stewart Head, Mr Langdale Pike by Paul McGann.

The details about _Brooks's_ are cited from the Wikipedia entry, with small alterations to fit this story. Langdale Pike is a minor canon character mentioned in the ACD short story "The Tree Gables", from where his introduction is cited.

Beta read by the most generous Linda Hoyland, thanks!

* * *

**Chapter 04 – The Excellent Connections of Mr Langdale Pike**

_Brooks's Club_ in St James's Street was one of the oldest gentlemen's clubs in London.

First established at 50 Pall Mall by Messrs. Boothby and James in a former tavern owned by William Almack – the same person as the one behind _Almack's Assembly Rooms_, for which the latter was often called 'the female _Brooks's_ – the current clubhouse had been commissioned in September 1777 by William Brooks, a wine merchant and money lender who had acted as Master for _Almack's_ at that time.

The imposing two-storey building, constructed of yellow brick and Portland stone in a Palladian style similar to the architect's early country houses, had been completed in October 1778 and all existing members of _Almack's_ were invited to join.

The main suite of rooms on the first floor consisted of the Great Subscription Room, Small Drawing Room and the Card Room. The interiors were in neoclassical style and the Great Subscription Room had an impressive segmental barrel vault ceiling.

To the present day, the interior of the building remained fairly unchanged, although there had been rumours lately about the neighbouring 2 Park Place, which had been purchased a few years earlier, being converted and adapted as part of _Brooks's_.

So far, that had not yet happened, and Mr William Scott Spice, a respectable countryman of about sixty, dressed in a sack suit of a dark winter weight wool and a splendid, tall browned bowler hat, was grateful for that. He was standing in front of the clubhouse and looking up at the triangular façade from the other side of the street, admiring of its clean, classical symmetry.

As a member of the country gentry and a wealthy industrialist whose interests were mostly invested in the Midland Railway, Mr Spice had been a member of _Brook's_ ever since he'd come of legal age. In his youth, he had spent more time in the famous gambling rooms of the club, staking fortunes on whist and hazard – and winning, almost without exception – than his parents would have liked. He had also taken part in the most eccentric bets the club had always been infamous for, including achieving membership in the 'thousand-yard-high-society'(1), founded by Lords Cholmondaley and Derby in 1785.

All this, however, had been a long time ago. His friendship with the great astronomer Sir John Herschel, who had lived at Collingwood House in Hawkhurst for thirty years, until his death, had turned young William Spice's interest towards more serious and respectable issues.

Soon, he was making honest efforts to handle the family business well – and succeeded. Everything he'd touched turned to gold under his touch. But the luck he had in gambling and in business he appeared to severely lack in his private life.

His wife, married for her dowry not for love, had died in childbirth, leaving him behind with even more wealth and with a baby girl, left to the mercy of nurses and nannies. Despite this arrangement, Mr Spice loved his only child and could deny her nothing. As a result, Alice had grown up as a spoiled and pampered young lady who couldn't even imagine that something might not happen according to her whims.

Therefore, it shouldn't have been surprising that when Alice had met that low-life gardener at Mr Edmonds's garden party and decided that she was in love and wanted to marry him, she wouldn't listen to the voice of reason. She'd run off with him as soon as she turned twenty-one, at which age she would receive a handsome allowance from her late mother's estate and married that peasant at the first chance.

It couldn't last, of course. Living in poverty – or what somebody like Alice would _perceive_ as poverty, although many of the truly poor would have been happy to have a shard of it at their disposal – wasn't as romantic as it had first appeared. Alice hadn't needed much persuasion to leave her husband and return to the lush convenience of her childhood home.

What Mr Spice still couldn't understand was why she would disappear again. Almost ten years ago, she'd simply announced that she wanted to visit a childhood acquaintance, Miss Sarah Sawyer, who was apparently living in Birmingham, had reserved a room in _The Grand Hotel_, got onto the train – and never returned.

There had been no messages: no letters, no wire, and no telephone calls ever since. Enquiries at _The Grand Hotel_ in Birmingham led to no-where; Alice apparently never arrived there. Miss Sawyer – well, _Doctor_ Sawyer, as it turned out – hadn't even been aware of Alice's supposed intention to visit her, and there was no reason to doubt her words. Despite her questionable profession, she was a fine and noble young lady and honest to a fault.

Alice was gone, and no trace of her could ever be found… not until the day before yesterday.

The letter from Mrs Holroyd – dear little Emily Craney – had shaken Mr Spice badly. He barely remembered the daughter of his old business partner– hadn't seen her in more than fifteen years – but he knew that she was doing well, One learned such things from mutual acquaintances – and from the papers, of course.

So yes, he knew that Emily had married that Scottish chap, the hero of the Second Anglo-Afghan war who had recently become Chief Constable of Birmingham. He just never thought that the position of Emily's husband could be of any help in the search for Alice.

The search that he'd pretty much given up years ago.

And yet… and yet it seemed that a piece of lost luggage might cast some light into Alice's fate, after all. Against all hope, he might learn what happened to his daughter.

It was almost too much to bear. But he _needed_ to know. And if the hands of the police were tied, as Emily's letter had suggested, he would engage a private detective to find his child.

More than that: he would hire the best private detective in the British Isles. He would hire Sherlock Holmes himself.

For that, however, he needed the help of Langdale Pike, and _Brooks's_ was the right place – the _only_ place, really – to find him.

* * *

Mr Langdale Pike was a fixture of the London society – and a rather mysterious one at that. No-one could tell who he was, where he came from, if that was truly his name – or whom he had bribed to be accepted as a member of _Brooks's_, as he'd had no references at the time when he'd applied for membership.

None that a gentlemen's club would find acceptable anyway.

And yet he'd been a fixture for the last couple of decades, spending his waking hours in the bow window of the Lesser Drawing Room of _Brooks's_, receiving and transmitting all the gossip in the city. He made, it was said, a four-figure income by means of the paragraphs, which he contributed every week to what Mr Spice secretly called the gutter press – papers that catered to an inquisitive public.

If anywhere, far down in the murky depths of London life there was some strange swirl or eddy, it was marked by Langdale Pike immediately. He was the human reference book upon all matters of social scandal – occasionally useful but generally disliked.

Not that _that_ would particularly bother him. He didn't seek popularity; he sought knowledge – and contacts that would help him with the gaining of said knowledge, and leading the leisurely life of a dandy, he had enough time on his hands to build those contacts. As a result, he knew a great many people from all social classes, and that was why Mr Spice needed his help.

Rumour said that Langdale Pike was a causal acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes. Others even went so far as to assume that the two had gone to school together, but Mr Spice had the yearbooks of those schools checked in advance and knew that particular detail to be false – unless Mr Pike had attended to aforementioned schools under a different name.

Such things were known to happen: a prodigal son, changing his name – more or less voluntarily, depending on the need – to protect an old, respected family from his own, less than splendid reputation. Whatever this was the case with Mr Pike, though, was everyone's guess.

Mr Spice had known Mr Pike for decades, but they hardly ever spoke to each other. Mr Spice had never been interested in gossip, not even back in his untamed youth, thus they had very little in common. And yet now he needed the very thing he always despised in the other man: his more or less ill-gained knowledge about other people's affairs.

He had spotted the strange, languid creature from the other side of the street already, standing in the bow window with a cigar in his hand and looking down as he'd been expecting Mr Spice. Even from the distance of an entire storey, Langdale Pike was unmistakable with his long, angular, gaunt face, framed by dark, wavy hair that reached to his collar, and his square shoulders that seemed somehow out of place, compared with the rest of his otherwise narrow body.

He was looking directly at Mr Spice, which wasn't surprising, considering that Mr Spice had sent a note in advance and was therefore expected.

Entering the building, he was greeted politely yet unenthusiastically by the porter – the man was new at _Brooks's_, obviously, didn't know him and clearly didn't nurture any hopes for a sizeable tip from a man coming from the country – and allowed into the club by merely showing his calling card. The porter might not know _him_, but he apparently knew his _name_. Either the man had memorised all names of past and present club members, or Langdale Pike had left instructions to send his visitor straight up to him.

The latter seemed more likely, to be honest.

"Spice, my dear old chap!" Mr Pike greeted Mr Spice when the latter entered the Lesser Drawing Room. "It has been too long! Too long indeed!"

His tone was grave, as if announcing an upcoming funeral rather than greeting an old acquaintance; not that he'd have had any reason to celebrate a joyous reunion. It wasn't as if the two of them had ever been close, and it was unlikely to change any time in the future. Besides, Mr Spice despised being called 'old chap'. He was no-one's 'chap', especially not that of a bored dandy who lived off of ruining other people's good names.

However, this wasn't the time of over-sensitive reactions. He _needed_ Pike; antagonizing the man would not help his cause.

"A long time indeed," he agreed, sensibly omitting the addition of _not long enough_. "I was surprised to learn that you've moved into _Brooks's_ permanently."

Mr Pike made a dismissive gesture with the hand holding the cigar.

"Oh, you know how it is," he said vaguely. "They have perfectly acceptable rooms on the second floor, and I pay them well. Why should I rent some shabby rooms from a horrid, mundane widow somewhere in the other end of the city when I can get here everything I need here: good food, assorted drinks, fine entertainment, and the best company I can wish for. They even let me use one of the offices to write my articles."

"Sounds practical," said Mr Spice.

"Oh, it is," replied Langdale Pike. "I have the source material right here, before my eyes. I can study my subjects like a scientist studies small insects under the microscope; it is most educational… not to mention profitable."

For some reason _that_ mental image repulsed Mr Spice very much. He didn't have a very high opinion of others of his own social class either, but the idea of exploiting their weaknesses to earn a leisure living that way, went against his old-fashioned moral sense.

And yet that was exactly what anyone would need Langdale Pike for, wasn't it? His _connections._

"But," continued this questionable gentleman as if he'd read Mr Spice's mind, "You aren't here to discuss my living conditions with me, are you?"

"Not really," admitted Mr Spice. "The truth is, I need your help."

"I assumed that much," said Mr Pike with a faint, unpleasant smile. "People seldom seek my company otherwise. So, what can I do for you?"

"It is about my daughter," replied Mr Spice a little reluctantly.

He disliked the idea of discussing Alice with this man; as if it would tarnish her memory somehow. But he had no other choice.

"I suppose you know what happened to her," he continued. "Or, at least, as much as there _is_ to know."

Mr Pike nodded genially. "That she ran off with old Edmonds's gardener all those years ago? Of course, I know. I'm afraid It was on everyone's lips back in… when exactly did it happen? 1870? 1873?"

"1875," corrected Mr Spice grimly, although he did have the nagging feeling that the other man was well aware of the correct year and just playing games with him.

The thought of everyone at _Brooks's_ discussing his daughter's folly wasn't a pleasant one but he could hardly have expected anything else. That was what people generally _did_, wasn't it? Especially if Langdale Pike was involved.

"Oh, of course," said the gentleman in question, showing the first vague signs of coming alive. "But it didn't last long, did it? Such a fine, well-bred lady like your little Alice and that primitive fellow… no, that would never do! She returned home after how long? A year? A year and a half?"

"Almost two years, actually," confessed Mr Spice reluctantly.

"Sensible girl," said Mr Pike, "Although she lasted longer than I'd have given her credit for. But how did you get that most unsuitable husband of hers keep off her back? Paid him off? Threatened to have him beaten up?"

"Both," answered Mr Spice coldly. "Right after punching him in the nose to show him I wasn't joking."

"That must have worked nicely," said Mr Pike with a thin, shark-like grin. "At least for the time being. But what do you want _my_ help for? Has he shown up again? Has he been bothering your daughter?"

"On the contrary," said Mr Spice. "He's gone missing; and so has my daughter."

"Oh, dear, that's really inconvenient," Mr Pike's eyes narrowed in interest. "When did this happen?"

"Ten years ago," said Mr Spice. "I have followed her trail as far as to Birmingham, but it ends there. And since then… nothing. Nothing at all."

"That is very inconvenient indeed," repeated Mr Pike. "But I still fail to understand what you could possibly want from me. None of this has ever reached London in all these years. I say people probably still believe that you've got your daughter back and that was it; that she still lives in Hawkhurst, closely guarded by you so that she would never do such foolish things again. I am not some kind of private detective who looks after missing persons, you know."

"No, but you're said to know one," replied Mr Spice. "The best one in London, as a matter of fact."

"Oh, I see," Mr Pike's eyes lit up in understanding. "You want to set Sherlock Holmes on the trail."

"Indeed. I'm told that you know the man well."

"Not _that_ well," Mr Pike made that dismissive gesture with his cigar-holding hand again. "We've got what you'd call a passing acquaintance. We exchange information, occasionally, but that is all. He is a most peculiar fellow."

"I do not really care how peculiar he is – _if_ he is any good," said Mr Spice gruffly.

Mr Pike produced a high-pitched giggle in response.

"Any good?" he repeated, still giggling. "My dear Spice, Holmes is the most brilliant mind in the entire country. If you want him to find your daughter, he most assuredly will."

"I hope your trust in his abilities is well-founded," said Mr Spice.

Mr Pike gave him that thin, unpleasant smile of his.

"I assure you it is. But I must warn you: Sherlock Holmes is not a dog you can whistle back, should you not like what he might find out. Once he accepts a case, he'll follow the trail until he's solved it."

Mr Spice shrugged. "As long as he handles the results discretely, I have no problem with that. I _want_ to know the truth; the whole truth."

Mr Langdale Pike nodded in understanding.

"I see," he said in his usual grave manner. "Well, in that case, the address is 221B Baker Street. You would better call in advance, though. Holmes is a peculiar man of peculiar habits. But if he expects you, there is a good chance that he would actually _be_ at home when you visit."

* * *

Mrs Hudson, the landlady of the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by unknown people of peculiar and often undesirable character, but her remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which, to tell the truth, often sorely tried her patience.

The incredible untidiness of Mr Holmes, his odd habit of playing his violin in the middle of the night (or at the ungodly hours of daybreak), his occasional revolver practice within doors, which left permanent marks on the drawing room wall, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments, the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him more often than not, due to his chosen profession, made him the worst tenant imaginable in London.

Despite all this, the landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and rarely dared to interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. She was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy in his dealing with a few chosen women – and Mrs Hudson had always been one of those chosen few. As often as she would remind him that she was his landlady, not his housekeeper, she took care of his needs nonetheless, as if he had been her own son.

The arrangement worked to their mutual satisfaction.

Of course, the fact that Mr Holmes's his payments were princely did help things. As Dr Watson once mentioned in his diary(2), the house might have been purchased at the price which he paid for his rooms during the years of his work as a consulting detective, the best of which had been the ones he'd shared with Dr Watson.

Dr Watson had been a soothing influence on the worst habits of Mr Holmes, and Mrs Hudson really regretted that he'd moved out of 221B a year or so ago.

Not that she'd deny him the right to a little happiness. If anyone, John Watson richly deserved to be happy, and his newly wed wife seemed to _make_ him happy all right. Mrs Watson (née Morstan), a kind and gentle little blonde woman, was the very thing Dr Watson had needed in his life. It was just so that he could not stay in 221B after having married, and that meant that Mrs Hudson, once again, was left alone with Sherlock Holmes and his trying habits.

One could not blame Mrs Hudson for the fact that she missed Dr Watson's tempering presence in her famous tenant's life.

Therefore she was understandably relieved that the Watsons were visiting on this particular day, when a new client seeking Mr Holmes's help was expected. And a fine gentleman he was, a wealthy one from the country, by his clothes, with a wide, somewhat flat face and thinning, slicked-back grey hair. His small eyes were cold; clearly, he was used to getting what he wanted, and Mrs Hudson wouldn't even dream of denying him entry – even if he hadn't called in advance.

With obvious anxiety and in a great hurry, she led the gentleman, whose name was apparently Mr Spice, up to the first floor and knocked on said door, calling,

"Mr Holmes, your client has arrived!"

"Well, what are you waiting for?" a deep baritone voice with an accent that spoke of a past education in an exquisite boarding school, answered from within. "Let him in."

Mrs Hudson shot the gentleman an apologetic look.

"He's a bit odd, Mr Holmes is. Not like ordinary people; a great man, the very best… but his manners sometimes…"

"Do not concern yourself on my behalf, good woman," Mr Spice interrupted her nervous chatter. "I have already been warned that he can be rude. That does not bother me the least. I am a man of direct speech myself; I'm sure we'll understand each other well enough."

"Well, if you think so, sir," murmured the elderly woman and opened the door for him.

* * *

The first thing Mr Spice noticed upon the entering of Sherlock Holmes's sitting room was the marked untidiness of said room; yet it was an untidiness that – at second sight – had a certain structure to it. As he looked around him, he noticed the scientific charts upon the walls, an acid-charred bench of chemicals – clearly the place where the detective performed his experiments – the violin case leaning in the corner and a coal scuttle, which contained several old pipes and tobacco, yet no coal at all.

Finally, his eyes came around to the mantelpiece, where several unopened envelopes were fixed to the wood with a knife. Next to them rested a human skull, with a single, long-stemmed red rose in one of its empty eye-sockets.

"Poor Yorick, I presume," he commented sarcastically.

"Not really," replied a tall, thin man with a pale, oddly angular face and clad in a dressing gown, rising from one of the armchairs. Mr Spice recognised the baritone voice from before.

The man had an unruly mop of dark, curly hair and the most remarkable eyes, the colour of which changed from grey to blue to green, depending on the angle of which the light fell upon them, but always with a strange silver gleam. He gave Mr Spice a hideously false smile before explaining things any further.

"He was a friend of mine; and I don't make friends with fools," he said. "Albeit I do work for them, occasionally, if the cases they present are worth my attention."

Yes, the rumours definitely hadn't been exaggerated. Sherlock Holmes might be a great man, but he was doubtlessly a rude and arrogant one.

"Holmes!" said the other man in the room warningly.

This one was a head shorter, with a round, friendly face, greying blond hair and seemingly guileless blue eyes. His clothing, as well as his accent spoke of middle class origins – and not necessarily the upper echelon of that, either. But there was a military rigidity in his stance, even sitting on the sofa, and a steely glint in those blue eyes that revealed that there was more to this man than what met the eye.

The woman sitting next to him was somewhat younger than him: a small, dainty blonde, dressed in a somewhat dull, greyish beige costume of a certain plainness and simplicity that spoke of limited financial means, untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull colour, with a white feather to the side.

Her face was quite plain, too, neither prettily coquettish nor classically beautiful, but her expression was alert and mildly amused as she watched the antics of the famous detective, clearly familiar with them. Her blue eyes, seeming almost unnaturally large in her thin face, were gently tolerant and sympathetic. Her entire appearance spoke of someone who had learnt to make do what she had but was stubborn enough to get what she wanted.

She was also visibly pregnant, and the identical wedding bands she and the blond man next to her wore made it clear who the lucky father might be.

"Dr Watson is a dear old friend of mine," explained the man in the dressing gown – clearly the great Sherlock Holmes himself – making the necessary introductions. "And his wife, Mary; a delightful lady. Absolutely delightful."

Mr Spice couldn't care less how delightful people the Watsons were. He came to speak with Holmes, not to make new friends.

"I hoped to speak with you in private, Mr Holmes," he said testily. "The case I wanted to 'bring to your attention', as you've put it, is somewhat… delicate."

"Aren't they all?" returned Holmes dismissively. "That's why people seek my services. You can speak in the presence of Dr Watson. Not only is he discretion in person, he's also worked with me on countless cases in the past, and I'm fairly sure he'd love to do so again."

"If Mary has no objections," replied the doctor. "I have family obligations, you know."

"Nonsense," said Holmes with a snort. "You've taken a week off work."

"To spend more time with my wife," pointed out the doctor amiably.

Mr Spice was growing impatient during their banter. Before he could have demanded that they stopped and Holmes listened to his case, however, Mrs Watson rose from her husband's side.

"It's no problem, John," she said with a smile full of gentle understanding. "I know you've missed playing detective; I'll just go down to Mrs Hudson and take a look at those knitting patterns she was talking about. I'll have to start making baby clothes any time now."

With that, she left a room in a quiet rush of skirts.

"As I said: a delightful woman," commented Holmes. "Well, Mr Spice; we're among men of the world now. Tell me about your case. What do you want from me?"

"I want you to find out what happened to my daughter," replied Mr Spice. "She went missing ten years ago; I've already given up her for dead. But now, for the first time, there might be a trace."

"What kind of trace?" asked Holmes. "Be more specific, sir, if possible."

Mr Spice handed him the large envelope stuffed with every possible thing he had hunted down about the disappearance of Alice during the last decade. Unfortunately, it wasn't much.

"There is everything I know. Part of my daughter's luggage showed up in the Lost Luggage Department at the New Street Railway Station in Birmingham, when they cleared out their storage rooms. The police won't take the case; they say it isn't their responsibility, and besides, it's been ten years, they've got more pressing issues. But I _need_ to know what happened to Alice. She is… _was_ my only child."

"Do you have any reason to assume that she's no longer alive?" asked Dr Watson gently.

As a soon-to-be father, he could probably emphasize with Mr Spice's better than the saturnine detective. Mr Spice shrugged.

"As I said: it's been ten years, Doctor. Were she alive, she'd have made contact by now."

"Sometimes young women of good families run away with men their parents would not approve of," said Dr Watson delicately.

"We were already beyond that," answered Mr Spice with a sour smile. "Alice had married a _very_ unsavoury fellow, realised her mistake in less than a year and returned home. Then, ten years ago, she decided to go to Birmingham for a few days… and never returned."

"Why did she want to go to Birmingham in the first place?" inquired Holmes. "Young ladies usually prefer more pleasant places at the seaside; like Brighton."

Mr Spice shrugged. "There was a performance of 'Romeo and Juliet' at the _Theatre Royal_ she wanted to see. An actress she admired very much played the lead role, if memory serves me well. She was always fond of plays."

"You don't know which actress, though?"

Mr Spice shook his head. "No; I have no interest in the theatre. But I was glad that Alice found something to distract herself from that disastrous marriage of hers. She needed something to lighten her mood."

"It could have been a mere ruse, of course," pointed out Holmes. "An excuse to meet her husband without your knowledge; for, I presume, they were not yet divorced."

"No," admitted Mr Spice. "We didn't want a scandal; not an even bigger one than the marriage itself, that is. People talked enough already as it was."

"People do little else," commented Holmes cynically. "Am I right to assume that you paid off the fellow handsomely, made some very believable threats ad intended to get your daughter a divorce quietly, at some latter date?"

Mr Spice nodded. "Exactly. Alice had had enough of married life for a while and no interest in anyone else, so there was no hurry. Nor did she have any reason to meet with her… with that Anderson character. He was a drinker; had even beaten her when drunk. No; she would not want to meet him."

"I see," said Holmes thoughtfully. "Hum; this seems to be a proper challenge. I shall take your case, Mr Spice. Of course, I'll have to see the piece of luggage that was found; _then_ I'll go to Birmingham to speak with a few people and to see whatever evidence there still might be."

"I had the trunk brought to my house, to Hawkhurst Old Place," said Mr Spice. "Naturally, you're welcome to visit and examine it any time… or Alice's chambers, if you think it would help."

"It's always helpful to have as many details as possible," answered Holmes. "I'll study the contents of your envelope first, to see what conclusions I can draw from them to begin with. I'll send you a wire when I'm ready to continue my investigation in Hawkhurst."

That was a clear dismissal, if Mr Spice ever heard one. And while he generally didn't take kindly being dismissed, now – to his own surprise – he found himself agreeing with the suggestion, thanking Sherlock Holmes for taking the case and leaving Baker Street like an automaton.

* * *

As soon as he was out of the house, Holmes called Mrs Watson back to the living room.

"As a married woman yourself, what do you think about this case?" he asked. "Because I know you and Mrs Hudson were eavesdropping."

Mary Watson gave him a wicked grin that stood in sharp contrast with her timid face.

"You're wrong, Mr Holmes. Miss Hudson would never _dare_ to listen in when you're with a client. I, on the other hand, am a little less discreet; especially considering the strong chance that you'd drag John along with you for days again, and that during our holidays. You cannot blame me for taking advantage on the thin walls of 221B."

She clearly wasn't upset about their ruined holidays, though. She knew how much her husband enjoyed the excitement of a case; and she knew that Holmes was a lonely man, with no other friends to share his adventures with. Besides, John usually enjoyed returning to a regular life with her just as much.

"I might need him, yes," admitted the great detective. "But I promise to give him back unharmed. So? Your opinion of this Miss Spice?"

"Mrs Anderson, actually," she corrected. "As far as we know, she's still married to that unsavoury chap. Or, at least, she was ten years ago, when she went to Birmingham to meet him secretly."

"Does it mean that you, too, believe that she was going to meet her husband?" asked Holmes.

Mrs Watson nodded. "Of course. Why else would she come up with such a transparent excuse? No woman would travel from Hawkhurst to Birmingham to see a favourite _actress_ in a play."

"It could have been an _actor_, though," suggested Dr Watson, but his wife shook her head determinedly.

"She had barely freed herself from _one_ unsuitable husband – with the considerable help of her father, mind you. She wouldn't start something with another unsuitable man so soon. Not before she was legally divorced… and _that_ could have taken time. _Lots_ of time."

"But why would she want to meet her husband?" Dr Watson was clearly a little bewildered. "She couldn't have planned to return to him, could she?"

"Unlikely," replied Mrs Watson. "I believe the exact opposite might have been true: she might have wanted to make Mr Anderson sign the petition for divorce immediately."

"Why would she want to do that?" frowned Holmes. "She apparently didn't want to remarry; nor was there another man in her life, according to her father."

The look Mrs Watson gave London's resident genius was almost one of pity.

"Dear Mr Holmes," she said. "Husbands and fathers are _always_ the last ones to know such things."

"Should I be worried?" inquired Dr Watson mildly, and his wife laughed.

"Not _yet_, she replied with a jaundiced grin.

"So you do think there was another man?" asked Holmes impatiently.

"And one of her own status or even higher, I suppose," she replied. "Why else would she want to go through with the divorce as quickly and as quietly as possible? Only to be free for another man… one that probably wouldn't have waited for her indefinitely."

"But she still couldn't have remarried for at least two whole years after the divorce," pointed out Holmes.

She nodded. "True. But if she was… _involved_ with a… a _gentleman_ in any way, or hoped to do so in the not too distant future, being divorced would have spared her the social stigma of adultery – or the man that of dallying with an adulteress."

"Which means we're back to the problem of the mysterious other man," said Dr Watson doubtfully.

His wife nodded again, her eyes coldly amused.

"Oh, there definitely was another man," she said. "Presumably one of the landed gentry who'd be willing to marry a divorced woman eventually, assuming that said woman had enough money to provide him with the lifestyle expected from his stand. The London clubs are full of such young gentlemen: sons of minor nobility struggling to keep their ancestral homes, desperate for money and on the hunt for suitable brides with large enough allowances."

"And she was young, presumably pretty, the daughter of a rich industrialist and the sole heiress of her father," commented Holmes thoughtfully. "Yes, I can see what you mean, Mrs Watson."

"Of course, it won't be easy to find out who this man was," she added. "As Mr Spice said, ten years are a long time. People forget things. Old, trusted servants who know more than their masters would assume, die. No, it won't be easy."

"But not impossible," declared Holmes. "Indeed, this case has just begun to look very promising. Tell me, my dear, do you feel strong enough for a journey to Hawkhurst in your current condition?"

The Watsons gave him identical blank looks.

"_Me_?" Mary finally asked. "But _you_ are the detective; and Isn't it John who usually goes investigating with you?"

"That he is," agreed Holmes. "But in this case I'll need you, too. Old, trusted servants, if there still are any, are more likely to talk to a woman about their lost mistress; especially to such a kind and patient one as you. And the fact that you're obviously pregnant would make them even more affectionate and careless."

Mary Watson looked at her husband uncertainly. "What do you think, John? Can I risk such a long train ride?"

"If we go soon enough, I don't see why not," answered the doctor. "You have barely begun to show; and the fresh air on the countryside would do you a wealth of good. Even if you have to travel with Sherlock Holmes."

The detective rolled his expressive eyes. "Very amusing, Doctor. Don't think you'll be exempt from our efforts, though. I'll leave the London thread in your capable hands while your delightful wife and myself are haunting the countryside."

"There's a London thread?" asked the doctor sceptically, not particularly fond of the idea of allowing his pregnant wife to go off on a mad adventure with Holmes.

"There's _always_ a London thread," returned Holmes. "London is like a great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. We'll know for sure _what_ that thread is as soon as we've studied Mr Spice's evidence. But first, I'll have to send a wire to Birmingham."

"To whom?" asked the doctor. "And what for?"

"To an old acquaintance of ours. Do you still remember Inspector Bradstreet?"

Dr Watson smiled fondly. "How could I forget the only police officer who's ever matched you in your investigative skills? What about him?"

"Apparently, he's been reassigned to the Birmingham force as a plain clothes detective," explained Holmes. "He's the leader of one of their police stations. I'm sure he'll be able to help us with the details."

"He most likely could, but the question is: would he?" asked Dr Watson.

Holmes shrugged. "Why not? He might be a rival, but he's not an enemy."

"As long as he sees it the same way," muttered the doctor.

~TBC~

* * *

(1) According to an entry in the Brooks's betting book from 1875 "Ld. Cholmondeley has given two guineas to Ld. Derby, to receive 500 Gs whenever his lordship fucks a woman in a balloon one thousand yards from the Earth." However there is no further indication that the bet was paid, or even how they would check it if it was claimed. The 'thousand-yard-high-society' is my invention.

(2) This passage is quoted – with small modifications – from the original ACD story "The Dying Detective". The modifications were necessary because TV!Sherlock's relationship to Mrs Hudson is, of course, a different one from that of his counterpart from ACD canon.


End file.
